Go. Get'em 







// 




V/ILLIAM A.WELLMAl^ 

Mardchal des Log 
OF THE Lafayette Flying * 




Class 
Book.. 



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OQEXRIGHT DEPOSn^ 



GO, GET 'EM ! 




SNAPSHOT OF THE AUTHOR, TAKEN 
" SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE " 



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* Go, Get 'Em! ♦ 

THE TRUE ADVENTURES OF AN AMERI- 
W CAN AVIATOR OF THE LAFAYETTE FLY- ^ 
ING CORPS WHO WAS THE ONLY YANKEE 
FLYER FIGHTING OVER GENERAL PER- 
^ SHING'S BOYS OF THE RAINBOW DIVISION 4^ 
IN LORRAINE, WHEN THEY FIRST WENT ^ 
"OVER THE TOP" * * * * * * 



^ 



S3; WILLIAM A. WELLMAN 

^ Marechal des Logis of Escadrille N. 87 



"W ith Introduction and Notes 

^^ Sy ELIOT HARLOW ROBINSON ^ 

ILLUSTRATED 



^ U^^mA fi^ 




tjt ^ 



THE PAGE COMPANY 
BOSTON ^MDCCCCXVIII * 






^^ 



Copyright, 1918, by 
The Page Company 



All rights reserved 



First Impression, September. 1918 



SEF 13 Ibid 
SgLA51)18J8 



^0 
MY LITTLE MOTHER 



INTRODUCTION 

It was a drowsy, peaceful day in early May. 
War seemed remote, an evil unreality. Lured from 
my writing by the insistent call of Spring, I left my 
desk and strolled instinctively toward Boston's 
breathing space, the " Common " of historic memo- 
ries, whose easterly mall, honored in bearing the 
name of Lafayette, was now lined with a row of 
trim green and white cottages dedicated to the com- 
fort of the boys who wear the khaki or the blue. 
Before the little stage in front of one I saw gathered 
a thronging crowd that, from a distance, gave the 
impression of many drones clustered about the open- 
ing of a hive. 

Such assemblages had become every-day sights 
and I moved toward it, impelled by a mild curiosity 
merely; but, when my eyes fell upon the figure 
which was leaning over the railing in an attitude of 
stirring appeal, my steps quickened. 

vii 



viii Introduction 



The form was that of a stalwart young man clad 
in the horizon blue of the French army. The uni- 
form stirred my pulses, but it was not that alone 
which now drew me, magnetlike. It was rather 
that, even from my distance, I could recognize the 
bearing and familiar gestures of a youth whom I 
had known from his childhood and had seen grow 
up into young manhood from a lad after whom 
Mark Twain might well have patterned his " Tom 
Sawyer," or T. B. Aldrich his " bad boy." 

I pressed my way through the eagerly listening 
crowd until I was close enough to the speaker to see 
the two-winged gold and silver insignia of the 
Lafayette Flying Corps, the bronze Croix de Guerre 
suspended from a ribbon upon which gleamed two 
palm leaves of victory, and, above it, the narrow 
strip of multi-colored cloth which mutely told the 
story of a wound received in service. 

Others were drinking in the lad's stories of bat- 
tles waged in mid air by the immortal Gunemeyer, 
Frank Baylies, David Putnam and Tom Hitchcock 
— one of them dead, one soon to make the supreme 



Introduction ix 



sacrifice and one a hapless prisoner to the Hun ; — 
but my thoughts would not behave, and rather kept 
racing back to those days, so short a while ago, when 
I had seen the boy dashing down the field on a 
quarterback run to win a hard fought game for 
Newton High ; stopping a difficult grounder at short, 
and, with ease and precision, snapping the ball to 
first base ahead of an eager runner; or outflying the 
skating pack in a hockey rink; for, prior to going 
" over there " to take a notable part in the greatest 
game of all, he had been an athlete par excellence. 

Spoken unconcernedly came the words, " My 
Nieuport flew a hundred and thirty miles an hour, 
unless the wind was with it, when . . ." and I shud- 
dered involuntarily, for I remembered the first and 
only time that I had entrusted my precious life to a 
motorcycle, having climbed up behind the speaker 
upon his promise to go slowly, only to be whisked 
through the streets at a speed which seemed to me 
fully to equal that of the flying Nieuport. 

" You folks think that you are getting a taste of 
war rations. You don't know what they are," the 



Introduction 



voice continued. " Why, when I landed in New 
York the waiter apologetically served me with what 
he called * war bread.' I thought that it was cake." 
The audience laughed, and his sally took me back 
to the days when, as a mere lad, he had starred in 
every local show, as comedian, dancer and singer. 

The lad sold another thousand dollars' worth of 
War Saving Stamps, and ended his informal talk 
with the words, " I have sometimes been called * a 
hero,' but I want to tell you men that I am nothing 
of the kind. The real heroes of this war are the 
boys in the trenches, who often stand for days in 
snow, or mud and water up to their knees ; who eat 
what they can get, and when they can get it; and 
who never have their names in the paper unless they 
are wounded or killed. They are the heroes." 

Followed by a prolonged burst of applause, he 
stepped down, and a husky sailor lad sprang into 
the vacated place and shouted, " I want to take issue 
with what Sergeant Wellman has just said. He 
has told you something of what those chaps of the 
Lafayette Flying Corps have been doing in the air, 



Introduction xi 



though mighty Httle about himself — it wasn't neces- 
sary, you read the papers ; — but I want to say to 
him and to you, that a fellow who has been through 
what he has, is one hundred per cent, a man/' 

We thrill upon meeting an American hero of the 
great conflict; the thrill is increased if that hero is 
a townsman of ours; but, if he is also a close friend 
of long years' standing, it is the greatest of all, and, 
as I pushed my way forward to grasp the sinewy, 
bronzed hand of Billy Wellman, the American dare- 
devil of Escadrille N. 87, Lafayette Flying Corps, 
I thought that none but a real live Yankee lad could 
have done all that he had done for France and the 
great Cause, and yet carry his honors so modestly. 
And my heart echoed the words, " one hundred per 
cent, a MAN." 

Eliot Harlow Robinson. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

Introduction vii 

I Overseas i 

II A Soldier of the Legion 19 

III Back in School 36 

IV Flying: On the Ground and in the Air 55 
V An " Upperclassman " yy 

VI ''Stunts" 99 

VII Boche Bombs 123 

VIH High Spots 131 

IX Luneville 136 

X Flying for France 149 

XI A " Merry Christmas," and My First 

Boche 162 

XII Seeing Red 179 

XIII High Notes, and a Hellish Chorus . . 191 

XIV The Rainbow in Lorraine 207 

XV Incidents and Accidents 219 

XVI Over the Rainbow 238 

XVII Hits and Misses 255 

XVIII Two Miracles 266 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 



Snapshot of author, taken somewhere in 

France " . . . . . Frontispiece ^ 

Sinclair's FIRST VICTIM . . . . .39' 

Lieutenant David E. Putnam . . . . 41 ' 

Wellman, instructor and mechanics . . 67 

Mr. Wellman's commission as aviator in the 

French Army . . . . . . 93 - 

Machines lined up for flight .... 147 

" Smashed to splinters " . . . . . 161 

My winter costume ..... 164 

Tommy Hitchcock 176 

Lieutenant Frank Baylies .... 205 ' 
Last picture of Lieutenant Marin . . .217 
Enemy observation balloon falling in flames 232 
Bringing down a Hun ..... 236 
Wellman in the cock-pit of a captured Ger- 
man RUMPLER ...... 246 

" Out of control, his plane went spinning 

down" . . . . . . .251 

Certificate of membership in the Lafayette 

Flying Corps awarded Mr. Wellman . 278 



GO, GET 'EM! 



CHAPTER I 



OVERSEAS 



On the forenoon of Saturday, the twenty-ninth 
day of March, Nineteen hundred and Seventeen, I 
came dejectedly out from beneath the gilded dome 
of the Massachusetts State House on Beacon Hill, 
having just been rejected for admission to the 
Naval Aviation service of the United States. 

On the forenoon of Friday, the twenty-ninth day 
of March, Nineteen hundred and Eighteen I was 
honorably discharged, because of injuries received 
in action, from the Lafayette Flying Corps of the 
historic Foreign Legion of France. I had, eight 
days previous, been shot down from a height of 
something over three miles above the lines in Lor- 



Go, Get 'Em! 



raine, held by the Rainbow boys of General Per- 
shing's original Expeditionary Force. 

The twelve months' period which intervened be- 
tween those two dates covers what I have reason 
to believe will be the most interesting and thrilling 
chapter in my Book of Life when it is finally closed. 
Yet, unlike many chapters of '' hair breadth 'scapes 
and moving accidents," I would be only too glad to 
live it — or most of it — over again, and it is my 
sincerest hope that, before the present ghastly war 
is ended, I may at least have the chance of living 
out its sequel, in the uniform of my own country. 

I write this in no spirit of bloodthirstiness or 
bravado. I have more reason than most for want- 
ing to see the war end, and my hope that it may 
not, until I am able to get back into the fight among 
the clouds, is based upon the firm belief that an 
early peace would mean but one thing — VICTORY 
FOR THE HUN! 

And " Peace without Victory,'' or any peace, 
short of a complete and crushing victory for Amer- 
ica and her allies, would spell a world catastrophe. 



Overseas 



This story of my year in the French service is 
not to be in any sense a treatise on what a Prussian 
victory would mean to civiHzation; but, before I 
have finished my narrative, I hope that I shall have 
shown you in some measure why I feel as I do. 

That is my primary object in writing it; the sec- 
ondary one is in order that those who chance to 
read it may have a fuller conception of what air 
fighting means and is, for it has already become 
a great factor in warfare, and will, I firmly be- 
lieve, become the greatest factor in achieving the 
ultimate decision. 

Finally, I hope that the story of my experiences 
and battles may — in some measure — " stiffen the 
sinews and summon up the blood " of the youth of 
America, so that all, who are able, will go and do 
likewise, and in fuller measure than has yet been 
possible in my case. 

It is a fascinating game — this flying and fighting 
in the air — and it cannot but appeal to every red- 
blooded Yankee, for we are a nation of athletes, 
and I can truly say, having tried my hand at al- 



Go, Get 'Em! 



most all branches of sport, that none other begins to 
compare with it. 

Probably, indeed, it was the sporting instinct 
which first drew me into the great conflict, for 
I cannot lay claim to having had any heroic idea 
of yielding myself a sacrifice for the cause of hu- 
manity, although something approaching that 
spirit may have later been engendered in me, as it 
must be in every man who, at close range, sees the 
Barbarous Hun in his assault on everything that is 
pure, fair and worthwhile in the world. 

Nor can I lay claim to any remarkable foresight 
in anticipating in March that America would soon 
be mixed up in the fight, and in trying to get into 
it in the branch of the service that most appealed 
to me. 

At the time when my decision was made I was 
twenty years old, living in Cambridge, Massachu- 
setts, and engaged in the wool business, and for 
some time I had looked forward to nothing more 
exciting in life than the everyday battle in that 
highly peaceful pursuit. Nevertheless, the germ of 



Overseas 



adventure was in my blood and, as I have hinted, 
every form of athletic exercise and conflict had 
always strongly appealed to me. I had engaged 
in almost every kind, too, while in the Newton 
High School — where I suppose I had the reputa- 
tion of being a pretty bad boy — and I had fought, 
boxed, played football, baseball, hockey and every 
kind of a mad prank all my life. 

Doubtless these all had a part in making me 
physically fit for what was coming, for although, 
when my major adventure began, I was but five 
feet nine and one-half inches tall and weighed only 
one hundred and forty pounds, I was as " hard as 
nails." Incidentally, while I was " over there " I 
increased my height one inch and my weight eight- 
een pounds. 

Some little time before the date of my decision, 
the United States had established a training school 
for naval aviators at Squantum, only a few miles 
from Boston, on the old field which was once a 
place famous for the earliest aerial meets. The 
newspaper accounts of the work being carried on 



Go, Get 'Em! 



there, and the occasional sight of an airplane pass- 
ing high over the city had stirred my imagination 
and my eagerness to fly, too, until it could not be 
repressed. 

Without announcing my determination to any 
one, I went to the State House and put in my ap- 
plication for enlistment in the air-branch of the 
service. 

The officer in charge of the enlistments ques- 
tioned me briefly about my life, and, when he asked 
me if I were a college graduate and I answered in 
the negative, he told me that there was no chance 
for me then, and added that the service was full 
and probably would be for some time. 

Somehow this rejection, after I had set my mind 
upon getting into the big game in which I felt that 
America was soon to play an active part, fixed my 
determination to do something, and do it quick. 

Several chums of mine had already enlisted in, 
and returned from, ambulance work at the front, 
and during the next few days, while I was on the 
road on business, I thought the matter over seri- 



Overseas 



ously. One evening, in the week which followed, 
I was in Worcester ; and while there suddenly made 
up my mind to join one of the American ambulance 
units, and go to France for the purpose of helping 
French and English lives, if I was not to be allowed 
to prepare myself to take German ones. A Rector, 
living in my old home city of Newton, had told 
me about the Harjes-Norton Ambulance Corps of 
New York, and I made up my mind to get into that, 
if I could. 

Acting impulsively on the idea I called Mr. Nor- 
ton — its American sponsor — by long distance 
telephone, explained my desire to him, and asked 
if I might see him and be examined. His answer 
was a prompt, " Yes." 

Still keeping my plans almost wholly to myself 
I obtained letters of recommendation from Pro- 
fessor Samuel Williston, of the Harvard Law 
School, a relative of mine, and the Reverend Ed- 
ward SulHvan, of Grace (Episcopal) Church in 
Newton Centre, in whose choir I had formerly sung, 
and went at once to see Mr. Norton, — a splendid 



8 Go, Get 'Em! 



type of American who had, I was told, practically 
given up a big law practice to engage voluntarily 
in that glorious work. 

He talked pleasantly with me for a few mo- 
ments, asked me if I could drive an automobile 
and, upon being told that I could, accepted my 
services. I signed for the customary six months' 
period. 

Upon my return home I told my family what I 
had done, and, although it was not difficult to see 
that the news came as a shock to my little mother, 
she merely smiled and told me that she was glad 
that I had taken the step. 

The period of waiting for notice to leave for 
France was passed impatiently, for I have always 
wanted to do things in a hurry. Meanwhile Amer- 
ica entered the war; but the die was cast as far as 
I was concerned — what the future might hold here 
was problematical, and I was only confirmed in my 
decision to get to the front at once. 

Word came at last. I was to sail on the French 
liner, Rochambeau — most appropriately named, as 



Overseas 



it eventuated — on the twenty-second day of May. 

Accompanied by my mother, I went to New York 
in time to receive my equipment, which included a 
well-filled duffle bag and everything but the uni- 
form, and on the scheduled day I said my fare- 
wells and boarded the ship bound overseas. 

The Rochamheau, although a second-class liner, 
was fast. She carried a good-sized, mixed passen- 
ger list, some of my fellow voyagers being French 
people returning home; but in the main they were 
Americans who were ^* going over " for purposes 
connected with the war — among them Miss Anne 
Morgan, whose work for the Red Cross has been 
so wonderful. 

My small stateroom held four bunks, and two 
of my roommates and new acquaintances — who 
were also going to join units of the American Am- 
bulance corps — warrant a word of mention. 

One was a Mr. Brown of Minneapolis, whom, 
because of his size and rotundity, we called " Bus- 
ter." Like most men of avoirdupois he was good- 
natured and jolly, and kept me laughing the whole 



10 Go, Get 'Em! 



trip. One of his favorite pranks was to climb into 
his upper berth long after the occupant of the 
one beneath it had gone to bed and to sleep, using 
the latter's face as a stepladder. 

The other, with whom I became closely ac- 
quainted, was " Bill " Cody, from Chicago — a 
tall, splendidly proportioned young chap, who was 
as wild a Westerner as ever had been his world- 
famous uncle, " Buffalo Bill/' 

Another of the passengers with whom I early 
struck up a warm friendship was a man who had 
apparently been selected by Fate as her agent in 
changing the course of my life. This was Reginald 
Sinclair, of New York, familiarly known as 
" Duke," and he was a prince. Later he was to 
be my close companion in the flying school, and the 
biggest man there, for he stood over six feet-two, 
and was in build the type which is now winning 
for our '^ Sammies " the vigorous name of '' Husk- 
ies." '* Duke " was not an Adonis, nor was it his 
wealth that earned him a place well entrenched in 
our hearts, but it was because he was a good sport 



Overseas n 



and so generous that he would any time have given 
the shirt off his back to help a friend. Perhaps 
the expression is not v^ell chosen, for at Avord most 
of us were quite willing to get our shirts off, for rea- 
sons which you will read later. 

He was going over expressly to enlist in the La- 
fayette Flying Corps, and, as we became ac- 
quainted, and he told me about his plans and the 
work of that organization, he planted the seeds of 
desire anew in my own mind. During the trip 
they grew rapidly, and, by the time I had reached 
France, I was crazy to change over, especially as 
my companions told me that it was done frequently, 
and that the Harjes-Norton Corps was only too 
glad to have its men do it. 

There was also another man on board who was 
going for the same purpose as Sinclair; but I shall 
not mention his name — it is not a popular one 
among American aviators of the Lafayette Corps. 
It is enough to say that he failed to graduate from 
the first — or " ground " — class in the school at 
Avord; but, when he returned to America, he lee- 



12 Go, Get 'Em! 



tured extensively on aviation and " fighting in the 
air." 

During the trip over I proved to my own satis- 
faction that I was a good sailor, for I was not sick, 
although the Atlantic was very rough. Aside from 
the tossing we got, the voyage was uneventful, and 
but two incidents on shipboard stand out in my 
memory as worthy of record. 

One had to do with a slender little clergyman, 
and a fascinating little French actress who was re- 
turning to Paris after performing all winter with 
the French Players in New York. The passengers 
held a Red Cross benefit performance in the main 
saloon one evening, and her act was the last on the 
bill, the announcement being made that she would 
be auctioned off to the highest bidder, whose would 
be the privilege of kissing her. 

She was brought in, dressed to represent a flower, 
the clothes basket which contained her being the 
flower pot, and her singing and dancing act was a 
tremendous hit. Then the bidding began at a lively 
rate, and in the midst of it the little minister ap- 



Overseas 13 



peared in the doorway. He was just in time to 
hear the bid, "one-twenty-five," called out. The 
next was "two-fifty," and he stepped forward 
eagerly and bid "three." Moreover he stayed in 
the game until he had bought her for " five." 

Like a good sport, although not without embar- 
rassment, he advanced to kiss her, amid laughter, 
cheers and applause. 

" First pay the five hundred francs," cried the 
auctioneer. 

" Five hundred francs. " gasped the minister. 
" Why, I ... I thought it was five." It was a 
facer for him, but he came to the mark, although 
he had to borrow from all his friends in order to 
do it. I rather guess that the experience taught 
him a salutary lesson about mixing with Mammon. 

The other incident occurred one morning when 
we were two days' distant from our destination. 
We had been sailing unconvoyed, and undisturbed 
by the new devils of the deep, although every precau- 
tion had been taken to guard against them, such as 
the closing and darkening of all portholes with steel 



14 Go, Get 'Em! 



covers and canvas, and the '' dousing " of every 
" glim " on deck at night. 

I v^as on deck, looking idly across the sailless 
sea and wondering if I should ever behold a sub- 
marine, when the ship suddenly veered almost at 
right angles to her former course, and the look-out 
cried out excitedly and pointed over the bow. 
There, bisecting our path, and only a few yards 
away, was a moving white line which beyond doubt 
marked the course of a deadly torpedo. 

The U-boat from which it had been shot was 
not to be seen ; but, for some hours, the Rochambeau 
zig-zagged and twisted like the pursued in a game 
of hare and hounds, and on that, and the following, 
night we were forced to remain fully dressed on 
deck or in the main cabin. 

Nothing happened, and there was little excite- 
ment manifested by the passengers; but it is safe 
to say that the feeling of imminent danger was in 
everybody's mind. 

I passed the trip in playing cards and idling, for 
the most part; but I managed to turn a little time 



Overseas 15 



to profit by picking up some rudimentary French 
from two charming Parisian children and their 
pretty nursemaid, who were among those return- 
ing home. 

Ten days after we left America the shores of 
southern France showed on the eastern horizon and 
brought to me the thrill that every argonaut must 
feel when the land which holds his particular 
golden fleece first appears before him. Our first 
stop was to be Bordeaux, and, as we entered the 
ever narrowing Garonne River and sailed close to 
the banks, I gained my first impression of the new 
old-world. It was a pleasing one. 

In the distance the country rose in rolling hil- 
locks, and near at hand on either side I could see 
the beautifully cultivated squared ofif fields and the 
odd little villages, over the cobbled streets of which 
bumped antiquated appearing buggies. 

This sail upriver brought me also the first aspect 
of war, for we passed so close to a big fence-en- 
closed field with rough barracks on one side, and 
holding several hundred German prisoners, that the 



l6 Go, Get 'Em! 



passengers shouted out invectives at them. They 
merely gazed stoHdly back. 

Presently we docked and were examined by the 
custom and army officials, but my own examina- 
tion was cursory, for my passport explained my 
mission, and it took only a moment to go through 
my meager luggage. 

At Bordeaux my former companions left me, to 
hurry on to their respective destinations, and I was 
alone, very much a stranger in a strange land. 
Everything looked odd to my New England eyes — 
the stone houses and stores, the roughly paved 
streets, and the people, with whom I had no means 
of holding conversation. It all engendered a pe- 
culiarly helpless feeling in me, and this increased 
as I began to realize that the passers-by were recog- 
nizing me as an American and smiling pleasantly. 

The address of my hotel — the De Bayonne — 
had been written for me on a slip of paper, and this 
I handed to a cab-man outside the dock. He 
nodded, slung my duffle bag and grip aboard his 
rickety hack, and I followed them. 



Overseas 17 



When we arrived at the hotel I asked him, in 
EngHsh, of course, what the tax might be. He 
doubtless guessed my meaning; but that was more 
than I could do when he answered, of course in 
French; so I handed him a five franc note (I had 
changed my American money on ship-board). My 
jehu laboriously counted out about a handful of 
strange-looking chicken-feed as my change and, not 
knowing what a proper tip would be, I compro- 
mised by handing it all back to him. He seemed 
satisfied. 

The Hotel de Bayonne was small, but astonished 
me by its elaborate and almost gorgeous decorations, 
and I soon found that it held an excellent restaurant, 
for this was the first thing that I visited. By fol- 
lowing the simple method of pointing at items near 
the top, middle and bottom of the menu I obtained 
a very fair meal of soup, veal, lentils, bread and the 
ever-present " confiture " — a sort of jam, without 
which no self-respecting French meal is complete — 
and red wine. 

As the pangs of hunger began to be appeased I 



l8 Go, Get 'Em! 



paid more attention to my neighbors, many of whom 
were fascinatingly pretty French girls, with merry 
lips and languishing dark eyes. And I could not 
talk French! Right then I resolved to master the 
language at once. 

In the hotel was a man who had charge of ship- 
ping my ilk to Paris, and he gave me my ticket and 
directions for finding the depot, where an electric 
sign pointed me to the right train. No seats or 
berths (it was now evening) were to be obtained, 
so, lonesome enough, I stood in the aisle for a while, 
and finally took a couple of blankets from my duffle 
bag and went to sleep on the floor. It seemed quite 
warlike. 

At seven the following morning we reached the 
city with the magic name, and, following the old 
procedure, I took a taxicab to the headquarters of 
the Harjes-Norton Ambulance Corps, to report my 
arrival. 



CHAPTER II 

A SOLDIER OF THE LEGION 

The very first person whom I met there, stand- 
ing in the doorway, was a tall, blond chap who 
somehow looked mightily familiar. He turned out 
to be none other than the son of my Latin pro- 
fessor back in High School days — the only man 
who could make me behave, and that merely by a 
patient, troubled look. His name was Phil Davis, 
and perhaps I was not glad to see a countryman 
and an old neighbor ! ^ Abroad, any one from the 
same city is a neighbor, of course. 

We chatted for some few moments. He told me 
that he had gone over in the ambulance service and 

1 Philip W. Davis, to whom Sergeant Wellman gives much 
of the credit for his own enHstment in the aviation service 
and who was one of the three boys from Newton, Massachu- 
setts, who figure in this story, was later transferred to the 
American Army as a lieutenant, and was reported to have 
been shot down behind the German lines and killed on June 
second. — The Editor. 

19 



20 Go, Get 'Em! 



shifted to aviation — all the red-blooded men were 
doing it now, he said. 

That was the last straw; / determined to shift 
immediately. 

Davis also spoke a serious word about the real 
war situation, and began to open my eyes to the 
truth, and the desperate need of France. The im- 
pression which his words made upon my mind was 
reflected in a letter that I wrote home to mother a 
few days later, and in which I told her what I 
had done. 

*' Why, mother, we (at home) don't realize the 
seriousness of this war. France is almost wiped 
out, and they are ' playing on their nerve.' Most of 
their wonderful men and boys are gone. England 
has started, but many claim that if we had not come 
to the rescue when we did, the Germans would have 
won the war inside of six months. Their fighting 
ability and their cruelty cannot be described. They 
are devils, and unless appearances are mighty de- 
ceitful they will be able to hold out for a long while. 
. . . There is nothing in the world that Our Coun- 
try should not do for France at this time." 

The words spoken by Davis drove the last rivet 
in my resolve. I said that I meant to follow suit, 



A Soldier of the Legion 21 

and he briefly outlined the necessary procedure. 

I went at once into the office and, after reporting 
to Mr. Norton's brother there, told him of my de- 
sire and determination. He was all kindness and 
released me from my former contract. 

Without delay I found my way to 23 Avenue 
Bois de Bologne, where I found Dr. Edmund Gros, 
a distinguished-looking man of middle years, with 
graying hair and a close clipped mustache, who was 
in charge of the Paris enlistments in the Lafayette 
Flying Corps. He greeted me warmly when I in- 
troduced myself and explained my reason for visit- 
ing him. 

After Dr. Gros had read my letters of recom- 
mendation, which I had wisely brought along with 
me, he said that if I passed the physical examina- 
tion, which I should return to take that afternoon, 
he would accept me. I lunched at a nearby res- 
taurant, but, having heard something of the se- 
verity of the tests given our would-be aviators at 
home, was too excited over the prospect to eat a 
great deal. 



22 Go, Get 'Em! 



Then, after a brief walk through the unfamiHar 
streets, I returned to Dr. Gros's office. It was not 
long before I had learned that the French and 
American examinations, given prospective flyers, 
were quite different things. When a thug is pound- 
ing at one's very doors, the owner of the house does 
not stop to search for his latest model automatic 
pistol, but grabs whatever he can lay his hands on 
to beat off the intruder. That was the case with 
France. She was not spending months in devel- 
oping the most theoretically perfect airplane, or in 
securing and training men who were theoretically 
the best qualified to run it. Rather her motto was 
" get men and machines into the air as quickly as 
possible." 

History will write the story of the results. 

So it was that my examination was simple in the 
extreme. It merely consisted of heart tests, after 
I had hopped about the floor a few times ; eye tests 
by reading a few letters across the room ; balancing 
on one foot with my eyes closed to prove that I had 
a fair sense of equilibrium; and a few other bal- 



A Soldier of the Legion 23 

ancing tests, during which I was whirled around 
on a piano stool with eyes closed and then requested 
to walk a straight line, with them open. Weight 
and measurements followed, and it was all over, 
and I was pronounced physically fit for the 
aerial service of the historic French Foreign Le- 
gion, of which the Lafayette Flying Corps was a 
part. 

Dr. Gros had told me to return to my hotel, the 
France ef Choiseul on Rue St. Honore, and wait 
for my enlistment papers from the French govern- 
ment. I waited for two weeks, with my impatience 
growing daily, and, ahhough I found plenty to do 
and see in order to make the time pass pleasandy, 
I sometimes felt that the American motto of " DO 
IT NOW" had never been translated into French. 
In my own estimation, my enlistment was quite 
the most important thing in the immediate carrying 
on of the war. 

However, from time to time, I gained a little in- 
side information on what was before me, as I be- 
came acquainted with men belonging to the corps 



24 Go, Get 'Em! 



who happened to be in Paris on permission, whom 
I recognized by their uniform and spoke to. 

The thirteenth of June produced an incident 
notable in my enforced stay. It was no less than 
the arrival in Paris of that great American general 
over whose splendid troops of the Rainbow Divi- 
sion I was one day to be flying, although I did not 
guess it then. 

He came alone, save for a few members of his 
staff, being in France merely to look over the 
ground, so the papers said; but, if he had brought 
an army of a million men, instead of the mere 
promise, his reception could not possibly have been 
more madly enthusiastic. The afternoon editions 
of the papers carried in big type the announcement 
of his impending arrival, and an invitation to the 
populace to turn out and greet him royally. They 
did. 

Almost every day something occurred, or some 
band of heroes returned, to create a burst of truly 
Latin excitement, but at no time, there or else- 
where, have I ever heard an ovation such as was 



A Soldier of the Legion 25 

given General Pershing as he rode in an open car- 
riage with Minister Painleve through the Grande 
Boulevard, followed by one containing Marshall 
Joffre — the idol of the French — and the Amer- 
ican Ambassador Sharpe. 

Paris simply went wild. The streets were 
jammed and the crowds pushed forward only to 
be pushed back again by the dapper little gendarmes. 
Men and women laughed and shouted with joy. 
They, who had borne three years of anguish with 
the most wonderful fortitude, stood and watched 
him pass, the tears streaming down their faces. 
Little children threw him kisses and strewed flowers 
in the streets. His carriage was filled with blos- 
soms. 

And this acclaim was all for just one man who 
had, as yet, done nothing; but the people sensed 
what he was going to do. By George, I felt proud 
and happy to be an American ! 

** Papa " Joffre came in for an ovation scarcely 
less jubilant, and why not ? 

He had been their savior in the time of their 



26 Go, Get 'Em! 



first dire need, just as Pershing promised to be now, 
and he represented the very acme of French miH- 
tary prowess and achievement. What a man he 
looked, with his massive head and white hair; but 
I could not help feeling that Pershing, thin, hard 
as iron, bronzed almost to the color of an Indian 
by wind and weather, and with his firm-set lips 
and bristling gray musta(^he, looked even more like 
the real fighter. 

If this were a story of travel merely, I might 
add several more interesting and amusing things 
about my first experiences among the new sights 
and sensations that Paris offers one who visits her 
for the first time. But it is not, so I shall record 
only two of peculiar personal interest — the one 
growing out of the other. 

I discovered that one of the hotel valets — a short 
but powerfully built Httle chap — had some skill 
with his hands, and one morning was having a 
friendly bout with him, en neglige, for I have al- 
ways loved to box. 

Somehow, I cut my foot slightly and, with my 



A Soldier of the Legion 27 

customary carelessness, paid no attention to the 
wound. The next day I found that it was sup- 
purating and I recognized the signs of blood pois- 
oning, for I nearly lost the same leg from that 
disease a few years before after an injury received 
playing baseball. 

I went at once to see Dr. Gros, and, to my great 
disgust, for I was daily expecting my enlistment 
papers, he insisted that I go for treatment to the 
American Hospital at Nueilly, outside of Paris. 
I had to obey, of course, and soon became recon- 
ciled to it, for my foot was in pretty bad shape, 
and the nurses from home were very nice. In 
fact, the hospital was a wonderfully attractive, 
homelike place with its American Red Cross doc- 
tors, nurses and food, and the care that I received 
was of the best. Three square Yankee meals a 
day certainly seemed good to me, and at times I 
almost regretted that I should soon have to ex- 
change them for the " poilu " rations served at 
Avord, concerning which I had heard much, and 
nothing good, from my chance acquaintances. 



28 Go, Get 'Em! 



I was put to bed in a cheerful, immaculately 
white ward, with six other banged up chaps, all of 
whom had been injured in training or in the ambu- 
lance service. 

There I stayed seven long days, to be discharged 
as practically cured, on June the twenty-third, by 
which time I was feeling as fit as the proverbial 
fiddle, although the doctor told me to go lightly on 
my foot for awhile. 

One of my recently made acquaintances at the 
hotel was " Doc " Cookson from Chicago. That 
afternoon he came for me in a taxi and we drove 
to Paris. When we reached the Seine, on the out- 
skirts of the Metropolis proper, we decided to 
dismiss our vehicle and stroll slowly in along the 
river's bank. 

We had progressed only a few steps along the 
broad sidewalk on the steep concrete embankment, 
when I saw a pale, distracted looking young girl, 
clad in the black uniform of a street car conduc- 
tress, run to the railing, climb it and, before 
I could make a move, she had thrown herself 



A Soldier of the Legion 29 

with a ringing shriek headlong into the river be- 
neath. 

Her act was so sudden that for an instant I 
scarcely realized what she meant to do. Then, 
with no thought for my foot, I ran to the spot 
whence she had disappeared. She had not come to 
the surface. Cookson said that he could not swim, 
and the crowd of excited Frenchmen that speedily 
collected either could not or would not, so it seemed 
to be up to me. 

In a few seconds I had stripped off my outer 
clothing and shoes, and dived into what seemed to 
me to be the dirtiest water in the world. It was 
perhaps a dozen feet deep at the spot. I would go 
down, grope blindly along the oozy mud of the bot- 
tom, come up to fill my lungs, and dive again into 
that liquid murkiness. For fully fifteen minutes 
I kept this up, driven on, not by any hope of saving 
the poor girl's life, but by an unwillingness to quit, 
until I was almost exhausted. 

By that time Cookson and some Gendarmes had 
secured a rope, grappling hooks and a boat. 



30 Go, Get 'Em! 



For some minutes more we tried to locate the 
body, and at last succeeded. She was dead, of 
course. 

That night I did not sleep a great deal, for that 
shriek, the white, wan face and stringy, dripping 
hair, and especially the thought that I had been 
almost exactly on the spot and yet had failed to 
save her life, haunted my thoughts when awake and 
my sleeping dreams. 

Incidentally I spoiled a good suit of clothes, and 
opened the cut in my foot and its physical pain 
added to my mental discomfort. 

Still, the return to the hotel had produced one 
cheering bit of news. My papers had come, and I 
had the satisfaction of realizing that I was actually 
a Soldier of France. To be sure, it was only sec- 
ond class, which made me the recipient of the 
princely salary of twenty-five centimes {five cents) 
a day. For an American to live on any such 
amount, even with " board and lodging " thrown 
in, was, of course, impossible; but I knew that, 
through the generosity of Mr. William K. Vander- 



A Soldier of the Legion 31 

bilt, the Godfather of the Lafayette Corps, I would 
receive the additional amount of two hundred francs 
(forty dollars) a month. 

It was not the money that interested me then, 
however. Every day had added something to my 
knowledge of the critical condition of France and 
the allied armies, and of the crying need for men, 
especially in the air, where the war must be won — 
if we can believe Lord Kitchener, who had once 
said that one airplane was worth three thousand 
infantrymen, 

I had read every bit of news regarding the doings 
home — or rather had it read to me, for my knowl- 
edge of French was still in the rudimentary state, 
— and in a letter to my mother, dated June twenty- 
sixth, I wrote, " By Jove, we are certainly get- 
ting ahead. That wonderful air fleet that Amer- 
ica has planned is what we need ! " I left France 
nearly a year later, and had not seen any of it! 

On the twenty-seventh of June I went to the 
headquarters of the Foreign Legion and took my 
oath of enlistment for the duration of the war, 



32 Go, Get 'Em! 



and that afternoon boarded the train southward 
bound for the training camp at Avord. 

I was alone at the outset; but soon made the 
acquaintance of two Americans on board, Joseph 
Stehlen, of New York, who had been in training 
there four months and was returning after a brief 
leave, spent (as it always is) in Paris, and a chap 
named Whitmore, from Philadelphia, who had 
been laid up in the hospital, having broken his leg 
and injured his eye by falling in his machine while 
flying. 

They appointed themselves my body-guard, and 
not only smoothed the way for me at meal time, 
for they both spoke French fluently, but told me 
many things about what I might expect in camp. 

It was nine o'clock and fairly dusk when we ar- 
rived at the little depot which bore the name of 
Avord. There was no town, the district being a 
farming one, but a third — or worse — rate hotel 
and some half a dozen provision stores and restau- 
rants clustered about the station. 

Several motor trucks, or lorreys, from the school 



A Soldier of the Legion 33 

were waiting, and we embarked in one of them for 
the drive out to the field. 

My first impressions of my new home? I had 
none. I was crowded in between a huge pile of 
bags and boxes, the road was so rough that I 
jounced every inch of the way, and my foot ached 
like the mischief. 

At last we drew up at a big gate, set in a twelve- 
foot wooden fence which extended to right and left, 
to be lost in the darkness and which, in fact, en- 
closed several fields so huge that it took an auto- 
mobile an hour and a half to circle it, as I discov- 
ered later. 

A sentry opened the gate to let us pass in, and 
we were driven up to a long row of white shed- 
like barracks dimly lighted by oil lamps. Before 
them I saw a considerable number of men standing 
and sitting about. They were obviously Ameri- 
cans, and regarded me curiously. 

Just as I climbed lamely out of the conveyance, 
a tall, broad-shouldered lad, with a frank, open 
countenance, crowned with blond hair that stuck out 



34 Go, Get 'Em! 

"all ways for Sunday," came running out of one 
of the doors. 

I stood stock still and stared at him, and he re- 
turned the compliment. The next instant we were 
gripping hands with mutual exclamations of sur- 
prise and delight. It was " Dave " Putnam, since 
become one of the most famous of American aces. 
He was a real neighbor of the old days at home in 
Newton, and a lad with whom I had gone through 
High School, and behind whose sturdy back in the 
football line I had given signals thousands of times. 

I had not known that he was at Avord, and he 
had not known that I was coming. 

Dave immediately constituted himself my guide, 
and took me to the commissary depot, half a mile 
distant, to get my bed. The word certainly sounded 
attractive, but I cannot say as much for the thing 
that it represented. It consisted of two wooden 
horses, a narrow wooden platform, and an evil- 
appearing straw mattress which looked as though it 
might be fairly alive. It was! 

There was no superior present to tell me what I 



A Soldier of the Legion 35 

should do or where I should go, so I picked out the 
only vacant spot in the bunkhouse, occupied by- 
Dave and a dozen others, and set up my bed be- 
tween those of two men who were introduced to 
me as Buckley (he is now a prisoner in Germany) 
and Dan Huger, who later developed heart trouble 
when at the front and had to go home. 

As it was now ten o'clock and after, and I was 
dog tired, I slid into my blankets and tried to go to 
sleep. " Tried " is used advisedly, for my first 
night as a Soldier of the Legion was one of dis- 
illusionment. 



CHAPTER III 



BACK IN SCHOOL 



On Monday, the twenty-eighth day of June, I 
awoke — no, I was awakened — to a reahzation 
that it was still pitchy black out-of-doors. My 
night had been a restless one, sleep having visited 
me only at intervals between attacks from above 
and beneath, for the bunk house was full of flies, 
and the mattress filled with many creeping things 
of different species whose names are not mentioned 
in polite society. To anticipate, I may say that, 
before long, I became an acknowledged expert in 
diagnosing bites made by them, and ** Show it to 
Wellman," was often heard when some one dis- 
covered a peculiar looking wound. Also that I 
could come pretty near guessing the length of the 
rat who had strolled, with clammy feet, across my 
face during the night. 

36 



Back in School 37 

I sat up in the dim Hght, rubbed my eyes, and saw 
a couple of dozen other fellows doing the same. 
Only one of them, Putnam, was known to me; but 
I was soon to know all the rest nearly as intimately, 
for a small bunk house, the same tasks, " eats," 
pleasures and discomforts, make for close fellow- 
ship. 

We were all Americans there, although within the 
school were hundreds of Frenchmen, not to men- 
tion Russians, Italians and Portuguese ; we were all 
in the service of France; we were all bound to- 
gether by mutual aims and mutual interests ; we were 
all on one plane of democratic equality — but what 
a variety we would have represented if suddenly 
transplanted back into civilian life! The old 
rhyme of '' Doctor, lawyer, beggarman, thief," 
would have fallen far short of describing us ade- 
quately. 

In that one barrack was everything from mil- 
lionaires to prize fighters. The last-mentioned class 
was represented by a man whom I shall not name, 
because, at last reports, he was viewing the walls 



38 Go, Get 'Em! 



of a military prison from the wrong side; but he 
was certainly an expert in his ex-profession, and 
although I considered myself a pretty fair boxer, 
he laid me cold more than once, in rainy day 
bouts. 

This is, perhaps, as good a place as any to intro- 
duce to you some of those companions of mine with 
whom I lived, flew and finally fought, although 
they were not all represented that morning. Some 
were quartered in other barracks, some came to the 
school later. 

Foremost among them, as far as general public 
interest is concerned, was Jules Baylies of New Bed- 
ford, America's greatest ace at the time of his 
death or capture, early last June. The reason for 
his subsequent successes was obvious during his 
Avord training, for, even as a young pilote, he kept 
our hair on end by performing the wildest possible 
stunts in the air, with the nonchalance of a born 
aviator. The war was no new thing to him, for 
he had, prior to shifting over into aviation, driven 
an ambulance all over the western front, and earned 



Back in School jO 



the " Croix de Guerre " for conspicuous bravery in 
that service. 

Tall, brawny, dark-haired and good-looking, he 
was a typical Yankee athlete-soldier, and his record 
in the school earned him the distinguished honor of 
being assigned to the "Stork" Escadrille of the 
French service, a member of which, the immortal 
Guynemer, was killed after strafing fifty-two Hun 
planes. That Escadrille always flew in the most 
active sector. 

Most popular of all was Reginald Sinclair, whom 
I have already described, together with the reason 
for his popularity. We trained together from start 
to finish and went to the front at the same time, his 
station being the Escadrille located just to the left 
of mine. At the time of this writing Sinclair has 
got only two official planes; but he is still in the 
game, and with luck, is due to boost his score ma- 
terially, for he is an excellent pilote. As an illus- 
tration of the " luck " of this game, take the case of 
Major Thaw, the most wonderful flyer with the 
Lafayette Escadrille, and one of our biggest aces, 



40 Go, Get 'Em! 



yet he did his work perfectly for almost three years, 
and had only one Boche to his credit, before his big 
" run " started. 

The man who, perhaps, typified the general spirit 
of the school more than any other was Austin B. 
Crehore, of New York, who was with me through- 
out the training at Avord, Pau and at Plessis Belle- 
ville later. He was far from robust physically, 
and all the time was suffering intermittently from 
chronic appendicitis. Again and again one of the 
other men and I had to help him home to the bar- 
racks from the flying field, half carrying him ; un- 
dress him and put him to bed, he was suffering so. 
But he stuck like a bulldog, reached the front and, 
during each of his first three weeks of fighting, 
brought down a Boche. Then, and not until then, 
did he feel that he had earned a rest, and he went 
to the hospital and had his troublesome appendix 
out. 

Another highly popular chap was Tom Potter of 
New York, who had driven an ambulance on the 
French, Italian and Serbian fronts before changing 




Photograph by Bachrach 

LIEUTENANT DAVID E. PUTNAM 



Back in School 41 

over. He was a wonderful pianist, and, since he 
had a '' box " in his room, it was a popular meeting 
place. 

Dave Putnam after his " graduation " was sent 
to the Champaigne sector, and I met him only occa- 
sionally on leaves, but he was another splendid 
pilot e and quickly started in to make a big name in 
the game.^ 

Those of you who are especially interested in 
bicycling have doubtless read the name of *' Egg," 
the great French racer. We had an *' Egg," too — 
or rather an " Egg " Drew. His given name was 
'' Sidney, Jr.," and he was the son of the ever 
popular stage and motion picture actor. The title 
was bestowed upon him in derision after he had 

1 Early in May Sergeant Wellman's friend, David E. Put- 
nam, downed his fifth Boche, which made him an " Ace," 
and on the same day a sixth, for which achievements the 
French government bestowed upon him the '* Medaille Mili- 
tare," he having already won the " Croix de Guerre." Sub- 
sequently he accounted for two more, and early in June, 
after having been transferred to the American service with 
the rank of first lieutenant, he gained the remarkable dis- 
tinction of bringing down iive enemy's machines in one day. 
This raised his official record to thirteen, and made him the 
American "Ace of Aces."— The Editor. 



42 Go, Get 'Em! 



purchased no less than three bicycles, not one of 
which would work. After a splendid record at 
the front poor Drew was shot down and killed in 
the Spring of this year. 

Among the others were Blumenthal, the famous 
Princeton center and guard — news of whose shoot- 
ing down are in the papers as I am writing this; 
Mosely, the Yale end; David Judd, of Brookline, 
Massachusetts; Ollie Chadwick, the Harvard foot- 
ball star; Wally Winter, of Chicago; Tom Buffum, 
Don Stone and Louhran, Taylor and Benny who 
have made the final great sacrifice. All these names, 
and those of others who will be mentioned in this 
brief history, have appeared often in print the past 
year and I will not stop to describe them. 

But one other must be mentioned at this time, for 
he was to become my closest and most trusted com- 
rade through fair weather and foul for several 
months, until, shot down in combat with five Hun 
machines, wounded and taken prisoner, his flying 
days ended, for a. time at least. 

This was *' Tommy " Hitchcock, the seventeen- 



Back in School 43 

year-old son of Major Thomas H. Hitchcock, of 
Westbury, L. L, and the Mineola Aviation School, 
who was before the war a famous polo player. 

Tom was the baby of the school in years, but in 
all things else he reached the measure of a man. 
Although he was so young he was splendidly built, 
with the muscles of a trained athlete, and such, 
indeed, he was, having made his mark on the polo 
field, tennis court and other places where sports 
are held, when he was in short trousers. He was 
a blond, good looking and good company, and 
" clean " — mentally, morally and physically. 

Tom arrived at Avord a month after I did, we 
" chummed up " immediately and, although I had 
a head start in training, I reached the front only 
a little in advance of him; in fact, he established 
a speed record for Americans in going through the 
course. 

So much for a brief caste of the principal char- 
acters, who were to play out the daily drama and 
comedy of school life in our barracks. Now to re- 
turn to the story. 



44 Go, Get 'Em! 

Before my bunk stood " Jimmie," and Jimmie 
was quite the queerest looking biped I had ever 
laid eyes upon — a sort of cross between an Indo 
and a Chinaman, with a Httle dash of characteristic 
unHke either, in short, an Annamede from the 
French oriental province of Annam. He spoke 
neither French nor English, and the only language 
that was mutually understandable was the profane. 
At this he was highly proficient, and I found that 
almost nighdy he received a lesson, for he would 
stand grinning in the center of the floor and repeat, 
parrotlike, the bad words shouted at him by those he 
served. 

Jimmie bore a large wooden bucket of inky ap- 
pearing liquid which masqueraded under the name 
of coffee. Heaven knows what was in it, but when 
I tasted it I found that it was strong enough to 
have waked the dead. And bitter! We used to 
sit on the edge of our beds and hang onto the side 
of them while we gulped it down. Still, it was a 
wonderful eye-opener. 

Following the example of my new companions. 



Back in School 45 

I made haste into my clothes, which were still those 
of a civilian, for the hour was getting late (it was 
almost three-thirty!) and sunrise ought to find us 
on the field. The hours of early morning and those 
of eveningtide are the best for flying, especially in 
the summer, for there is then likely to be less wind, 
and less of the fluky air conditions which the heat 
of noonday produces. " 

As bad as the bed had been, I looked a bit long- 
ingly at the blankets which I had just quitted, for 
I found that I was still lame and tired. 

" Hurry up," some one shouted. " We've got to 
be on the march in fifteen minutes, and you'd 
better dress warmly. It will be pretty chilly for 
a few hours, although hotter than Hades by 
noon." 

** Breakfast ... ? " I began. 

There was a general laugh. *' Breakfast ! What 
kind of a Frenchman are you? Come on, no time 
to shave." (A little later all the Americans, on a 
bet, went without shaving for two months, and we 
were a wild looking bunch.) 



46 Go, Get 'Em! 



I followed the rest out into the half light and felt 
the ghostly touch of the night mists on my face. 
We formed a semi-military line and marched out to 
the first field, twenty minutes' distant. The sky 
brightened momentarily, first a mere tawny rift 
appearing in the mist, then a yellow tinge spread 
over everything and the fog disappeared to give 
place to the glowing colors of dawn. 

We approached the hangars of the Bleriot 
school. These, as you may know, are like immense, 
oblong circus tents with curved roofs, made of 
canvas stretched over a wooden framework, their 
sides ten or a dozen feet high, backs enclosed, and 
fronts covered with canvas flaps. Already moni- 
tors (instructors) were arriving, and the mechanics 
were busy pulling the flaps back and wheeling out 
the machines, immense darning needles. Some of- 
the men climbed into theirs on orders from the head 
instructor, and began to test their motors and the 
air was torn to shreds by the deafening banging and 
clattering, above the incessant racket of which I 
could scarcely hear myself think. It quieted down 



Back in School 47 

at last and up came running a dapper little French- 
man who I learned was De Runge. As he arrived 
he called out, in English, " Good morning, Ameri- 
can bums." (Some one had told him that this was 
a polite greeting, and he believed it!) 

There was a general laugh, instantly stilled when 
he began to call out briskly, in French, " Putnam, 
take machine number thirty-five," and so on, until 
all but I were placed. 

At another command the mechanics spun the sev- 
eral propellers, and the racket began again. The 
assistants pulled away the blocks from beneath the 
pair of small wheels on each machine, and soon the 
rosy eastern sky was filled with high darting black 
specks — the more advanced birdmen ; the nearer 
air with the fledglings; while the ground bore still 
more, taxi-ing about and looking like fish out of 
water. 

Everywhere were monitors, pupil aviators of va- 
rious classes, mechanics and laborers, all as busy 
as bees and with no time to pay any attention to 
a new-comer. 



48 Go, Get 'Em! 



I tried to eat a piece of the dark, heavy and bitter 
war bread and soft, wormy cheese that was laid out 
in a camion near the hangars, but found no appe- 
tite for it, and then stood around for a few mo- 
ments, watching the animated scene with a good 
deal of the eagerness of a small boy on a back lot, 
who wants to be invited to join a game of " scrub " ; 
for, as one machine after another taxi-ed past me 
with a clatter and whirr, and then slid smoothly 
into the air, my blood started pounding with the 
mad joy of anticipation. 

At length I asked some one to direct me to the 
commanding officer, and he pointed out a small, 
thick-set and nattily dressed officer, who stood 
watching the field with snapping black eyes, mean- 
while curling a little pointed black mustache. It 
was Capitaine Terrio, in charge of the first three 
classes. 

I approached him, performed what was my con- 
ception of a military salute, and reported that I was 
one of his new pupils. 

If I had cherished any idea that he would be so 



Back in School 49 



glad to get me that he would welcome me with open 
arms and kiss me French style, it was quickly dis- 
sipated, for all that he did was to snap out in a 
businesslike manner, " What's your name ? " 

I told him, and he continued, '' Very good. Re- 
port immediately to Sergeant Parrisoy, of the first 
class." 

With another salute I turned away, and finally 
succeeded in locating the Sergeant, only to be told 
that the class was then full and that I would have 
to await my turn. I waited, wild with impatience 
to be up and doing, for four days; but in the in- 
terim somewhat accustomed myself to the manners 
and customs of the place. 

While waiting for my turn to come, and then 
proceeding with the chronological sequence of 
events, I will briefly describe the salient features of 
my life during the months which were to follow, so 
that you may have the complete setting. 

Here, then, are two samples, taken from the stock 
of summer days — one blue and one gray. 

I have already pictured the start of a day and in 



50 Go, Get 'Em! 



this respect they were all alike. In the early sum- 
mer it was a case of getting up before three, for, if 
the weather were fair, we were supposed to be in 
our planes — either on the ground or in the air — 
from sunrise until nine o'clock, at which hour we 
returned to the barracks. 

Then we had the time to ourselves until about 
five in the afternoon, and before dinner, which was 
served at one o'clock, we would loaf or lie on our 
beds and essay the impossible — i.e., to get to sleep, 
for the days were often hotter than the devil's 
kitchen. As a matter of fact the time was more 
often spent in a never-ending battle against flies, 
big and little, and bugs, little and big, and at one 
time or another during the day you might have 
seen a row of us, stripped to the waist and indus- 
triously picking them from our undershirts, or 
burning them out of the seams with automatic cigar 
lighters. A jackknife blade run down a crack any- 
where in the bunkhouse would do wholesale mur- 
der. 

By dinner time I was always ravenously hungry, 



Back in School 51 

but my appetite often went back on me when the 
food was set out on the rough board table in the 
building, three minutes' walk distant, which served 
as a dining hall. Almost invariably it was horse 
meat, tough and gamey, lentils which contained 
many little pebbles so completely camouflaged that 
I found it easier to swallow them than to search 
them out, real war bread, and coffee. 

If I did not wholly relish the rations, the flies did, 
and always favored us with their company in 
swarms. 

The afternoon was a duplication of the morning, 
with, perhaps, the interpolation of a game of cards, 
dice or baseball, for early in July one of our officers, 
who had heard a good deal about the great Ameri- 
can national pastime, and never seen it played, sug- 
gested that we make up two teams and give an 
exhibition. 

There were several excellent players in the camp 
— old college and school stars — but not enough 
to make two evenly balanced teams. Nevertheless 
we succeeded in putting up a pretty fast brand of 



52 Go, Get 'Em! 



ball, and the Frenchmen immediately went wild 
over it and came in crowds to every game. We 
played three times a week. 

The honor of captaining one of the nines was 
thrust upon me, and my team managed to pull off 
the greater number of victories during the se- 
ries. 

At five o'clock we were back at the piste, or flying 
field, and ready to continue the afternoon session 
until it was too dark to see, which might mean as 
late as nine-thirty. 

Supper, a second edition of dinner, followed, and 
then, until bed time, which, tired as we were, was 
generally postponed like most unpleasant things, 
we amused ourselves with games, or by watching 
the Annamedes and half -naked black Arabian 
zouaves perform their native dances about camp 
fires in their quarters, to the unsymphonic accom- 
paniment of weird crooning and the thumping of 
tomtoms. The dances were as sinuous and sensuous 
as any Hawaiian hula-hula, and, with the ruddy fire- 
light reflected on the dusky and ebony bodies, the 



Back in School 53 

effect was outlandish in the extreme. Moreover, 
they used an intoxicating native drug, and the dance 
often ended in a fight. 

This, except for the interpolation of special in- 
cidents, is an accurate, but sketchy, pen picture of 
our every-day existence, v^hen the weather was fit 
for flying. 

Rain, and there was a lot of it, or impossible fly- 
ing conditions brought an intermixture of feelings. 
It gave us a vacation which we generally needed, 
but it also retarded our progress, and, as we were 
all eager to get to the front and actually into the 
fight, every delay was maddening. 

On such days we would have roll-call in the 
early morning, and then be dismissed, to spend the 
time according to our own sweet will. 

Most fortunately for us we had what we called 
our *' clubhouse." It was a little stone farmhouse 
not far from the field, which a motherly little 
French woman of the peasant type, slender, bent 
and weatherbeaten, had taken early in the summer, 
and ran with the aid of two sisters. What her real 



54 Go, Get 'Em! 



name was I never knew ; but we called her " Old 
Mammy," and a mammy she was to us all. 

Old Mammy kept her own cow and chickens and 
provided us with real " home " cooking, — of the 
French kind, of course. 

This establishment was truly a God-send to us 
Americans, and we would troop thither at every 
opportunity to spend on decent food, the *' pin 
money " thoughtfully supplied by Mr. Vanderbilt. 
We had the run of the place, and in the low ceil- 
inged, tile-floored room which served as a combina- 
tion living- and dining-room, we had a tin-pany 
piano, and sang, smoked, played cards, threw dice 
and boxed as the spirit moved. 

Is it any wonder that we frequented such a truly 
delightful place as often as possible, especially when 
we could there purchase for two francs-fifty (fifty 
cents) real breakfasts of a couple of eggs, toast 
with butter and fresh milk, and other meals far 
better than the French government was able to sup- 
ply us with? And is it any wonder that I was 
perpetually broke? 



CHAPTER IV 

FLYING : ON THE GROUND AND IN THE AIR 

On the first day of July I received my initiation 
into the intricacies of flying. It was, however, like 
a person learning to swim on dry land, or the case 
of a baby who has to learn to crawl before he can 
walk. 

At that time the French were training their avia- 
tors by the " rule of thumb." We had no prelimi- 
nary schooling in the theories of aeronautics, study 
of the construction of the planes, preliminary flights 
with a teacher or military drill, as in x^merica. 
They tried a drill one day, but it was not a howling 
success and was never repeated. 

"There's your plane; if you do so and so, such 
and such a thing will happen ; get into it and go to 
it." 

That is a brief summary of the method of in- 
55 



56 Go, Get 'Em! 



struction then pursued at Avord, although I under- 
stand that it has since been somewhat changed. It 
was a modern version of the old Spartan " survival 
of the fittest '* manner of raising children ; but it 
turned out real flyers. 

Not, of course, that we " went aloft " the first 
day, or for many days, the ground class being the, 
longest and most tedious of all. 

I was introduced to my first machine, and when 
I climbed aboard I felt as proud as a boy with a 
new bicycle, for, although it was merely a sadly 
battered old Bleriot, it represented to me the first 
step toward a much desired end. Of course, being 
a Bleriot, it was a one-seated monoplane — that 
is, it had single wings, and their normal spread had 
been reduced to twelve meters (thirty-six feet ap- 
proximately) by clipping. It would not leave the 
ground, and accordingly the nickname applied to 
this type of machine — a " Penguin " — is obviously 
appropriate. 

Since it is my desire to write this chapter rather 
for the reader who is wholly unversed in the theories 



F^ng 57 

of flying than for you who understand at least its 
rudiments, I will give a few simple explanations 
here. 

The monoplane machines of the types that I flew, 
were all very lightly constructed of slender pieces 
of spruce, covered with canvas, and that is the usual 
construction, although some of the big three-place 
planes — like the one that killed Luffberry — are 
lightly armored. The long, tapering body is called 
the fuselage. At the front, just below the wings, 
is the cockpit and seat for the pilot, and, in front 
of him, is the engine, whose two-bladed, wooden 
propeller draws the machine through the air, ex- 
cept in the heavy Voison plane, in which the 
engine is behind the operator, and the propeller 
pushes it forward, as does the screw of a steam- 
ship. At the back of the fuselage are two rudders 
which work independently, one vertical, and the 
other horizontal and each divided into two parts. 
The latter are called the rear ailerons, or elevators, 
and are connected by wires to the manche a balai, 
or control stick, which comes up between the pilot's 



58 Go, Get 'Em! 



extended legs. When this is pulled backward, the 
rear ailerons are elevated and cause the nose of the 
machine to point upward, and when it is drawn 
back the opposite results. Other wires connect the 
control stick to the ends of the wings. In the 
Bleriot and Caudron types the wings are warped, 
and in most others the wires operate hinged flaps 
called the side ailerons. When the control stick 
is moved sideways to the right, the aileron on the 
left hand wing is lifted, and that on the right hand 
one dropped, which causes the machine to tilt down- 
ward on the right hand side, and of course the 
opposite result is obtained by moving the stick to 
the left. The vertical rudder, which steers the 
plane's course exactly after the manner of a boat, 
is worked by a very simple device like that on a 
double runner sled, a narrow piece of wood oper- 
ated by the pilot's feet. So much for a very simple 
description of an airplane. 

Of course I had no need to worry about any of 
the controls but the last mentioned, during my 
training in the first class, the purpose of which was 



Flying 59 

merely to teach the pupil how to control his engine, 
— in my case a thirty-five horse power, stationary 
three-cylinder Anzani radial motor — and steer a 
straight course, with the fuselage horizontal, for 
half a mile down the field. 

This running the plane straight across the field 
sounds simple, doesn't it ? Well, it is not — for 
the beginner, at least, — and it is a fact that the 
customary length of time spent in learning to do 
this one thing properly, at Avord, was a full month. 
Some took a longer and some a shorter period, and 
the same is true of all the subsequent *' stunts," so 
it is obvious that " classes " had no fixed graduation 
day. 

Sergeant Parrisoy told me briefly what my stunt 
was to be, and how to perform it — one of the other 
fellows interpreting, for it was many weeks before 
I knew enough French to get along without friendly 
assistance from a go-between. I got set confidently. 
A mechanic was called to give my propeller a twirl, 
which was the method of cranking the engine, I 
gave her the gas and the spark, and was off. 



6o Go, Get 'Em! 



If you have ever seen an intoxicated man stagger 
waveringly down the sidewalk, just missing bump- 
ing into posts and people, you can mentally picture 
my progress, for first I pressed too much on one 
side, then on the other, of my foot-tiller. Even- 
tually I reached my destination, the other side of 
the long field; but, if my course had been charted, 
the result would certainly not have served as a 
geometric diagram proving that the shortest dis- 
tance between two points is a straight line. 

I improved steadily, however, and, although the 
daily task was one highly conducive to the use of 
profanity, for it seemed as though I were getting 
nowhere fast, three weeks after my maiden trip 
I actually heard my teacher say the heart-gladden- 
ing words, " Wellman, to-morrow ycu may go into 
the second class." 

During these three weeks two events of particular 
interest to me happened. First I got my uniform — 
a dark blue, close fitting tunic with open collar and 
a single row of steel buttons, bearing a winged pro- 
peller blade, and trousers of the same color, with 



Flying 6l 

a hair line of orange down the outer seams. That 
day I strutted about inwardly prouder than any Gen- 
eral in the French army with his gold lace and 
insignia. 

The other occurred when I witnessed the first 
demonstration of the truth of the axiom that luck 
plays the leading part in flying. 

One evening, early in July, a number of us were 
standing around at the piste, as the aviation field 
was called, having completed our day's work, and 
were watching the real flyers come in and alight, 
one by one. At last our attention was attracted to 
one machine flying low over the little cluster of 
buildings about the Avord depot, and, as we watched 
it, we saw it suddenly swoop down and disappear 
straight through the roof of one of them. 

Capitaine Terrio and several others, among whom 
I was one, ran for a near-by automobile, and broke 
all speed records over the half mile of horribly 
rough road that separated our field from the site 
of the accident, which we fully believed had re- 
sulted in a fatality. 



62 Go, Get 'Em! 



When we arrived, the first thing which our eyes 
fell upon was the flaming auburn hair of " Red " 
Scanlon, as he stood at salute in the doorway of 
the bakery which he had " just dropped into " while 
passing. 

Although he was covered with mortar dust there 
was scarcely a scratch on him, despite the fact that 
his plane had gone through the roof until only its 
rudder stuck out, and had been smashed to smith- 
ereens. He told us that his motor had stopped 
dead, just as he was about to end his flight home, 
and that his momentum had not been sufficient to 
carry him clear of the buildings. 

Yes, nerve, judgment and experience are three 
highly important factors in flying; but pure luck 
tops them all. 

Therefore it is hardly strange that aviators are 
highly superstitious, and that almost every one car- 
ries some mascot on which he pins his faith. At 
just about this time I wrote home in haste for some- 
thing to act as my charm, selecting a photograph of 
my mother and one of " the girl I left behind me " in 



Flying 63 

a leather folder, and I carried this close to my heart 
throughout my whole career in France, with what 
effect you shall hear later. 

Promotion to the second class sounded like a real 
step forward; but it really meant ten days more of 
the same sort of terrestrial trips, this time in a 
Bleriot of the Rolleur type, with full sized wings, 
but with its six-cylinder motor throttled down to 
half speed, so that the machine could not leave the 
earth for its real habitat in the air. 

Unlike the "Penguin'' which bumped over the 
ground like a light weight automobile, this machine 
had a buoyancy that caused it to skim along so that 
the sensation of the pilot was the next thing to 
actual flying. It also responded much more easily 
to the rudder. 

The feeling engendered in me was indescribably 
odd as I went whizzing along, barely touching the 
ground. It was not to be compared with that which 
was to come later, hurtling through space; but 
more like the one which you may have had your- 
self, if you have ever found yourself walking un- 



64 Go, Get 'Em! 



concernedly in the air in your dreams. It gripped 
me so that I left my machine with regret at night 
and eagerly anticipated the next " go " at it. 

Again, this period brought one occurrence which 
is still strongly outstanding in my memory. I had 
seen death before, but never one of violence. It 
happened one evening, — a peaceful, quiet twilight 
night which made the thought of tragedy remote. 
Most of the machines were safe on land, but two 
V Olson planes — big two-seated affairs in which 
a quartette of French students were learning the 
gentle art of bombing — were still on high. Just 
what happened to one of them we never knew ; but, 
when both were over the field, it apparently went out 
of control, and rammed the other at full speed. 
There was a crash, as they collided in midair, their 
wings crumpled up as though made of pasteboard, 
and down they fell, tumbling over and over in a 
mass of flames, for the gasoline tank of each must 
have been smashed, and the essence immediately 
ignited. 

We ran for the spot where they landed, but too 



Flying 65 

late to accomplish anything. All four men, and 
both machines, had been burned to a cinder. 

Once more I passed a troubled night. A fellow 
cannot help but wonder, after witnessing such a 
tragedy, if he will himself some day be the victim 
of a similar one, even though he may know that the 
chances are all in his favor, and that fewer acci- 
dents occur in airplanes than in automobiles. 

While I was at Avord, the American students were 
extremely fortunate, and not one was killed and few 
injured, although some of other nationalities were 
less lucky. 

Then came the last of July, and my promotion to 
the class which spelled the real thing, flying twenty- 
five feet off the ground. 

A child on Christmas eve, with his mind full of 
what Santa Claus is going to bring him on the 
morrow, might serve as an example of me the 
night after I received word of my promotion into 
the air, and I tried my best to form some mental 
impression of the sensation that I was to experience 
when I, too, became one of the birdmen who sailed 



66 Go, Get 'Eml 



off the ground so gracefully, sported around in the 
ether with perfect ease, and then softly slid to earth 
down an invisible slope. 

The field where the third class held forth was 
much further from the barracks, it taking nearly 
three-quarters of an hour to reach in a tractor truck, 
or camion. 

When the morning was about to dawn I heard 
one of my companions call, " Hurry all everybody, 
the camion leaves in fifteen minutes and if you miss 
it, it's a case of a long, long trail on foot to the 
field." With eager anticipation I hurried into my 
clothes, and outside. The camion was waiting, and 
Annamedes were piling big loaves of the poilu war 
bread and round boxes of the soft, evil-smelling 
cheese under one of its seats. 

There was a general scramble for seats, and some 
of the other fellows immediately fell into an audible 
final snooze, while others " snitched " a bit of bread 
and cheese. It looked uninviting and nauseating 
at that hour, but by this time I had conquered my 
squeamishness and joined the latter group. 



Flying 67 

It was some time before our conveyance actually 
got under way; but we were off at length, moving 
slowly past the low, dingy barracks, while the faint 
morning breeze, blowing over them, bore evidence to 
the fact that the sanitation there was of the most 
primitive order. Through the gray dawn and over 
a roadway, in which the ruts outnumbered the 
smooth spots, we jolted away ; but it was better than 
walking. There was a little low laughter and jest- 
ing, but not a murmur of complaint — it was all 
part of the game. " C'est la guerre," as the French 
would have put it. 

Arriving, I went to my machine — a real air- 
plane at last — as soon as it was assigned to me, 
and, with impatient eagerness to be off, listened 
while the monitor carefully showed me how the 
control stick worked, — I knew all about it already 
from watching and talking with others, / thought. 

I listened impatiently while he gave me my 
final instructions about getting off the ground and 
landing, for my first trip, in fact all my flying in 
this third class, was to be devoted to the practice 



68 Go, Get 'Em! 



of these two things, and keeping a straight line in 
the air. 

The usual preliminaries of starting were over at 
length, and, with my propeller a misty white circle 
before me, I started to taxi over the hubbly field in 
order to acquire the speed needed for the " take 
off " — some forty miles an hour. When I was 
certain that I had momentum enough, — I probably 
had had it seconds earlier, — I clinched my teeth, 
gave a mental " one, two, three, go,'' pulled back on 
my control stick — and went. 

My first sensation was one of surprise at the 
sudden smoothness with which the machine under 
me was traveling; a mad ecstasy, over the thought 
that I was actually flying, succeeded it, and I gave 
a soundless whoop of joy, and looked down to see 
how the earth appeared from the magnificent height 
of twenty-five feet, and rushing backward at some 
sixty miles an hour. 

Many of Jules Verne's imaginings have more 
than come true, and I may live some day to fly 
twenty-five miles above the ground, but I solemnly 



Flying 69 

affirm that it will not seem so high to me as did 
that absurdly low altitude of as many feet. 

My heart took a sudden jump upward, and, with 
but one idea — that of getting out of the air and 
back to terra firma — I pushed my control sharply 
forward and headed toward the ground. I had, 
only a few minutes before, been told painstakingly 
just what procedure to follow when making a 
landing, how to dip — or pique — down until al- 
most to the field, and then redress^ or pull on my 
lever and straighten the plane out parallel to the 
ground, and so settle like a bird. Of course I for- 
got all about doing it, in my delight at seeing my 
machine draw near the solid earth again, with the 
result that I crashed into the ground almost head 
on, and, for the first of several times, felt the frail 
wings and fuselage collapse beneath me. 

Half dazed, but wholly happy to be still alive and 
still intact myself, I sat amid the wreckage until 
others, including my monitor, came running up to 
extricate me. Some were grinning heardessly. 
He was scowHng a little; but, instead of giving me 



70 Go, Get 'Em! 



the tongue lacing that I richly deserved, he merely 
said, in a businesslike tone of voice, " Take ma- 
chine number three, Wellman." 

I had been in the air a little less than two min- 
utes, and, on my very first attempt, had proved the 
truth of the v^ords spoken in jest — the oldest of 
all aviation " wheezes " — that it is not the flying, 
but the alighting, that is dangerous. Still, / had 
Uown, and, mixed with my self -disgust and anger 
over having been such an idiot, were the germs of 
the aerial craze. 

I went to my second machine at once and, in a 
few moments, had completed a second ride, this 
time without mishap. 

To a man who has flown, free from earthly limi- 
tations, in the clean, cool air where clouds are born, 
and has had the mastery of the three known dimen- 
sions, and a speed greater than has even been 
achieved on the earth, the old familiar sensations 
and thrills seem mild and trivial. To-day I was 
out in an automobile, and speeded it up to sixty 
miles an hour. We hit only the high spots, but 



Flying 71 

how crude this method of conveyance, during which 
one hits anything at all, seemed to me. I found 
myself unconsciously and continually pulling back 
on the wheel, as I would have on my control stick, 
to lift the motorcar into the air. 

But this is anticipating. 

Rain fell steadily for four days, from the third 
to the sixth, and, with no Fourth of July celebration, 
no letters from home, nothing to do but engage in 
the indoor sports, which soon palled, and the dis- 
mal weather, I was quite as blue as ever I had been 
in my life. 

Then, with the return of the sunshine and real 
flying, everything became rosy again. This class, 
during which I flew in more or less straight lines 
back and forth across the field at an altitude of a 
score of feet, extended over a fortnight more, and, 
before it ended for me, I was able to alight in the 
manner which I had envied in others, without the 
jarring bump of a too abrupt dive, or the '' pan- 
cake " thump of a too-flat drop. 

Thus the middle of July brought my promotion 



72 Go, Get 'Em! 

to a still higher powered Bleriot, with instructions 
to make the tour de piste — or flight around the field 
— in it, at an altitude of five hundred metres. With 
this came the reward for all the hard and irksome 
work that had gone before, and, oh, the untram- 
meled joy of skimming through the air, and seeing 
the earth below in its geometric figures of greens 
and browns, and the men looking like little black 
ants. 

This class was, of course, intended to teach the 
pu^W-pilote how to make his turns in the air, and 
that is quite a different thing from making them 
on the ground. 

You know what happens to an automobile that 
tries to turn sharply on a level stretch of road, while 
going at a high speed. The same thing is true of an 
airplane. A turn with rudder only results in go- 
ing off into a " wing-slip," which is nothing more 
nor less than a sidewise fall, and, just in the man- 
ner that the corners of a race track are banked to 
tilt a racing machine, and counteract the tendency 
to shoot straight ahead, and so go over when the 



Frying 73 

turn is made, the airman has to provide a bank of 
air for himself in order to make a turn in safety. 

He does this by tilting the plane down, in the 
direction which the turn is to take, by means of the 
side ailerons, or — in the Bleriot — by warping 
the wings, as I have explained before. 

The pressure of the air against the plane which 
is elevated, as the rudder swings the machine 
around, forms the necessary " bank.'* It is rather 
a neat operation and requires good judgment, for a 
too-sudden turn, while flying at full speed, causes 
such a tremendous atmospheric pressure on the 
lightly constructed wing that it is likely to collapse. 

The doing of this, like everything else in flying, 
becomes second nature with practice, and demands 
no more thought than balancing a bicycle, but the 
beginner has to keep himself on the qui vive, and 
the nervous and physical strain that results is de- 
cidedly exhausting — at least I found it so. 

On the morning of August the second I was, for 
the first time, two solid hours in the air, and, when 
I finally descended, I was almost " all in," and 



74 Go, Get 'Em! 



fairly trembling all over, not to mention being 
filthy, for the Bleriots spit oil and grime frightfully 
and, after a long trip, we often looked like stokers. 

During all this training in the air the monitors 
stayed on the ground and kept close enough watch 
on our doings to make mental notes of our mis- 
takes and weaknesses, but I found them very pa- 
tient and considerate in pointing them out and cor- 
recting them. 

We Americans stood on a somewhat different 
plane from the ordinary French soldiers, for we 
were volunteers, come to aid them in their hour of 
need, and they appreciated that fact. Moreover, 
the discipline in the aviation was in nowise commen- 
surate with that in other branches of the service; 
but there had to be a certain amount of it, neverthe- 
less. One incident, in which it had a part, occurred 
about this time, and, although it was not a thing 
for the performers to boast of, it was amusing 
enough to be recounted. 

Several of the American " colony " had kept their 
natural exuberance of spirits in as long as pos- 



Flying 75 

sible, and one evening went to the " corners " — as 
New Englanders might name the cluster of stores 
at the Avord depot — and proceeded to paint them 
red. Next morning they were all late to classes, 
and were promptly punished by imprisonment in the 
rude barrack jail, filling it to overflowing. Their 
term was to be three days in durance vile, — and vile 
it was ; but that very night the Annamedes got into 
one of their free-for-all fights with knives, and the 
Yanks had to be released to make room for the new 
batch of prisoners. They were never called upon 
to finish their term. 

Throughout the period of my earlier training we 
had heard persistent reports that Uncle Sam was 
about to take over the Lafayette Flying Corps, and 
my letters home were full of the good news, for it 
would mean flying under the Stars and Stripes, a 
thought which supplied an added incentive to the 
work. It did not happen while I was in the game, 
and, although I was to have the satisfaction of one 
day flying over Old Glory, it was to be under the tri- 
color of France. 



76 Go, Get 'Em! 



To counteract this inspiring report, came an 
official order that all student pilot es at Avord 
should receive training in the heavy two-place 
bombing Caudron biplanes This spelled further 
delay in getting into the real action, and on top of 
that occurred several days of rain, and, although 
I knew that the fourth class, with its more inter- 
esting acrobatics was just ahead of me, I had an- 
other spell of the blues. 

In looking back, the discomforts of my months 
at Avord seem trivial ; but, with the heat, bugs, flies 
and especially bad weather, they seemed real enough 
when going through them. 



CHAPTER V 



AN UPPERCLASSMAN 



The third week in August was devoted to the 
tour de piste and the simpler acrobatics — an d 
droity a gauche, a serpentine and three spirales — 
performed in a still more powerful Bleriot, which 
had an eighty horse-power rotative Gnome motor. 
With this class the real " thrills " began. I was 
much too elated and excited to be frightened; but, 
when a beginner makes his first dives in corkscrew 
curves from a height of thirty-five hundred feet, 
with the motor cut ofT and nothing solid under him 
except a monoplane, which is a rather ticklish craft 
to manage, especially when the air is rough, he is 
pretty certain to get some sensations which he never 
had before. 

The a droit is simple — when you know how! 
It merely consists of piqueing down with the motor 

77 



78 Go, Get 'Em! 



off, then, as you approach the earth, you bank 
sharply, and make a right hand turn and instantly 
straighten your machine out either to make a land- 
ing, or continue your flight. Of course the a 
gauche is a similar turn by the left flank. 

The serpentine explains itself, and a spirale is 
a joyslide to a point directly below the one from 
which you start, on an invisible spiral staircase with 
the plane tilted all the time. It beats the most ex- 
citing roller coaster all hollow, and, since there are 
no rails to guide your machine, the novice has to 
keep his wits about him, for, if he piques too 
sharply, off he goes into a spinning nose dive. 

After the first attempt, during which my throat 
felt a bit constricted, and my heart beat an un- 
rhythmical tattoo against my ribs, I began to enjoy 
those headlong rushes toward earth, and the sud- 
den straightening out of the machine, by tilting its 
elevator up at exactly the right moment. 

When I had satisfied the monitor that I had 
mastered this style of air travel, I was given two 
days' leave before starting in with the Caudron. 



An '^ Upperclassman " 79 

The school had narrowed down materially by this 
time, as many of the newer comers had been shipped 
to another one — for we had not planes enough to 
take care of them — and others had failed, or had 
been discharged because of illness. I felt that I 
was safe now, however, having made what the 
Capitaine termed very creditable progress. I must 
have had the constitution of a horse, for I had stood 
up under the strenuous work and the terrible food, 
and had not missed a single morning or afternoon 
session of flying. 

My forty-eight-hour stay in Paris began on Au- 
gust nineteenth, and it proved to be all that I had 
anticipated. 

For the first time in my life I experienced the 
real delight of being utterly lazy, of lounging around 
in a comfortable hotel chair and of sleeping between 
linen sheets. 

I also made the acquaintance, by means of a let- 
ter of introduction from an American girl who was 
a mutual friend, of the delightful woman who was 
to be my war godmother, Miss Grace Wood. She 



8o Go, Get 'Em I 

was middle aged, big-hearted — in fact one of the 
noblest women it has ever been my good fortune 
to meet — and an indefatigable worker in the Croix 
Rouge of Paris. From that date on, she was to 
care for me like a second mother. 

Paris looked decidedly different than it had when 
I left it, nearly three months previous, for now I 
found Yankee soldiers and sailors on the streets in 
numbers, and how I " chinned " with them, getting 
all the latest news from home, down to the dry-as- 
dust batting and fielding averages in the baseball 
leagues! Mine was a real rest, and, when I took 
the train back toward Avord, I had to drive myself 
with all my will power to face the opposite condi- 
tions to which I knew I was returning. However, 
the " call of the air " was more insistent than ever, 
and it increased to the point of madness as a full 
fortnight passed without bringing a single day with 
conditions fit for flying. 

During this spell the newly established Y. M. C. A. 
club, in a small room in one of the barracks, proved 
another God-send. All kinds of sandwiches, choco- 



An '' Upperclassman " 8l 

late, soap and other little luxuries were sold at the 
lowest possible prices, and, last but by no means 
least, real American cigarettes. You cannot know 
what that meant to us unless you have smoked the 
cheap P>ench kinds, without wearing a gas mask. 
Then the room had the usual equipment for read- 
ing, writing and amusements, including " canned " 
music of the " Made in America " brand — it was, 
in fact, a little bit of the good old U. S. A., in the 
heart of France. It would be impossible to over- 
estimate the good work being done by that, and 
similar institutions, at and near the front. 

1 had fully expected to start training in the new 
type of machine immediately upon my return to the 
school, but none was ready for me. Every avail- 
able Caudron had been smashed by the Russian 
students, who were wonderfully bad aviators — 
fearless, but sadly lacking in air sense. 

For nearly two more weeks, after the weather 
cleared again, I continued my practice work in a 
Bleriot, one day establishing a very fair altitude 
record for a pupil in a monoplane — thirty-five hun- 



82 Go, Get 'Eml 

dred meters. More than once 1 kept up my after- 
noon session for five hours, at the end of it be- 
ing too dog-tired to return to the barracks, and, 
instead, stretched myself out on the bare ground 
beneath one of the hangars and slept there, fully 
dressed. 

These continued postponements of my final work 
at Avord, and the achievement of the coveted 
" brevet " which was to crown it, were dishearten- 
ing; but, as a matter of fact, did no harm, for one 
who is learning to be a fighting pilot e cannot imbibe 
too much experience in the fundamentals. Never- 
theless, it was difficult to be philosophical then, for 
the thought of the possibility of having to spend 
any part of the Winter there was unendurable, and 
I used to get indigo blue at times, which was not 
difficult, for I was generally tired to death at night. 
I drew some slight selfish comfort from the knowl- 
edge that I was, after all, faring better than several 
of my acquaintances, for a few had been obliged 
to leave the school and others reduced from the 
one-place machines to those of the bombing type. 



An ^' Upperclassman " 83 

which sealed their doom as far as ever driving a 
fighting chasse plane at the front v^as concerned. 
This was a thing that we all dreaded. 

My first injury — a minor one — came early in 
September. One morning, while I was cranking my 
own machine by spinning the propeller, it kicked 
like an army mule and rather badly strained my 
back, picking out a spot which had been hurt in 
football some years before. The injury did not 
lay me up, but it proved rather painful and — 
worse — knocked out my digestion for the first 
time. The gentle diet of horsemeat, lentils and 
French war-bread is not the best thing in the world 
for a weakened stomach, 

September fourteenth stood out as a Red Letter 
Day, for it not only brought my biplane, but several 
long-delayed boxes from home, containing flannels, 
a wonderful sweater, candy and cigarettes. I felt 
like a millionaire. The heavier underwear was most 
welcome at that time, for, with the coming of Fall, 
and flying at higher altitudes, I was beginning to 
suffer from the cold. It is astonishing how much 



84 Go, Get 'Em! 



keener the air is when one gets a few hundred feet 
above the ground. It has a bite all its own. 

The shift to a biplane was a welcomed one, and 
the new machine surprised me with its steadiness. 
It was like leaving a rowboat that is tossed about 
by the smallest waves, and boarding an ocean liner. 
Still the controls were much " harsher," and re- 
quired the exercise of almost double the strength 
required in a Bleriot. 

The week ushered in by Sunday, the sixteenth, 
was one of many incidents. First came the news 
from the acrobatic school at Pau that William 
Meeker, a lad who for some weeks had been one 
of my closest chums, although he was a bit ahead 
of me in training, had been killed. Capitaine Terrio 
had pronounced him a wonderful pilote, when he 
graduated from our school, but the *'luck'* had 
not been with him. His motor had stopped when 
he was only a little above the ground, his machine 
had gone into a wingslip when he banked a bit too 
hard, and he had crashed down to death. This re- 
port confirmed me in my belief that, in training at 



An '^ Upperclassman " 85 

least, ** better be safe than sorry," is the motto to 
follow. 

This may surprise such of my personal acquaint- 
ances as read this; but it is a fact that I followed 
it pretty consistently during my early work, and 
recommend it to all beginners in aviation. Later, 
when you have gained the mastery of your ma- 
chine, you can take chances — and I did, a-plenty. 

The very next evening I witnessed a piece of 
the other kind of luck, coupled with some wonder- 
ful flying. One of our monitors, who was also a 
French Ace, got caught in a sudden and violent 
tempest, with lightning, a gale of wind and rain. 
We stood below and watched his machine as the 
sharp flashes of lightning illuminated it against the 
rolling black clouds, and it was being tossed about 
unmercifully. Only a miracle could save him, it 
seemed, but by a transcendent display of coolness 
and marvelous control he brought his machine safe 
to earth and made a perfect landing, thereby escap- 
ing what looked to us like certain death. I have 
never seen such a thrilling exhibition as the way he 



86 Go, Get 'Em! 



handled that tiny, frail aircraft in the heart of the 
storm. 

On September nineteenth the school was visited 
by several United States officers who came to ex- 
amine us for immediate admission to Uncle Sam's 
service, not as a unit, however, but as individuals. 
Their tests were extremely simple, or we had been 
so v^ell trained that they seemed so to me, and I 
passed them easily. Yet, when the time came when 
I might have taken the oath and become an Ameri- 
can airman, I ducked it. This may seem strange 
to you, for, as I have said, I had been crazy to make 
that very shift, and I knew, moreover, that, upon 
obtaining my brevet, I would almost certainly get 
a second lieutenancy with pay of two hundred dol- 
lars a month, against the six that I was then getting 
from the French government, and the eleven to 
which I was looking forward. To be perfectly 
frank, the consideration of additional compensa- 
tion carried a strong appeal, for the minimum ex- 
penses and an occasional real " feed,'' ate up my 
monthly allowance in no time. 



An " Upperclassman " gy 

The reason that I did not change over then, was 
because I realized that I would be wholly subject to 
American orders, and the word went around that 
in all probability those who did change would not 
be allowed to remain and complete their training 
at Avord and Pau. Despite the hardships, the 
schooling there was the best obtainable then, and I 
determined to stick and round mine out. I felt 
that if I could really become an " A-i '* pilote — 
whether my title was that of American Lieutenant 
or French Corporal — I would be of more value to 
the Allies, and so to my own country in the long 
run, especially if to my schooling I could add a 
period of actual flying and fighting with the old- 
timers at the front. There was always the possi- 
bility of shifting later. 

Finally, what America might be able to do in the 
'' air-line," for some time to come, was prob- 
lematical, and I did not want to take the chance of 
waiting, perhaps for months. I wanted to fly and 
fight at the first possible moment. 

Thus the chance that I had wanted, came, and I 



88 Go, Get 'Em! 



put it resolutely behind me. I resumed my work 
with the heavy Caudron under the instruction of 
Lieutenant de Kurnier and on Friday, the twenty- 
seventh of September, had the great satisfaction of 
being told that in the afternoon I should try the 
first of the three final tests, which, if met success- 
fully, would give me my brevet. It went by the 
name of the petit voyage, and in my case meant 
a fifty-mile trip 'cross country from Avord to 
Chateauroux, and return. 

At the hour set for the start of my first journey 
away from the home fold, there was a pretty stiff 
head-wind blowing; but I got off, lifted my slow, 
cumbersome but reliable craft to an altitude of 
seventy-five hundred feet, and set sail. Like all 
other ships bound for foreign ports, whether on 
the sea or in the air, mine was equipped with map 
and compass, and in addition had a gasoline gauge, 
an altimeter, to indicate the height from the 
ground, and a dial registering the number of the 
motor's revolutions per minute. 

From a mile and a half in the air the country 



An ^^ Upperclassman " 89 

beneath appeared like a different world from that 
which I had been accustomed to, for it stretched 
flatly away for immense distances in every direc- 
tion; familiar objects lost their distinctive features 
and took on geometric shapes; fields and little for- 
ests became patchwork squares of subdued and vary- 
ing colors, like an old-fashioned and oft-washed 
quilt spread over some sleeping giant; houses were 
mere toy things like those of a Japanese table deco- 
ration ; roads were coarse white thread ; haystacks 
white pinheads, and little lakes, bright new silver 
dollars. 

As my machine undulated, the whole world 
seemed to rock gently back and forth. 

Even my steady craft was tossed about consid- 
erably by the air waves, and, since my progress was 
like that of a boat bucking a strong head-tide, it 
took me a full hour to make my port of destination. 
On the earth, fifty miles in sixty minutes is going 
some, but in the air it is barely crawling. There 
are no fixed objects to flash past. 

When almost over the aviation field outside the 



90 Go, Get 'Em! 



little gray town of Chateauroux — located by means 
of my topographical map — I piqued down and 
made a successful landing. Then, after getting my 
tank refilled with essence, as the French call gaso- 
line, and having my paper signed by the Command- 
ant of the field, I started for home, sailing before 
the wind. 

Half the distance had been covered when my 
magneto went suddenly bad, and I experienced the 
unpleasant sensation of having my motor stop short, 
which left me with no motive power and more than 
a mile in the air. It sounds desperate, but in real- 
ity the danger in such a case increases in adverse 
ratio to the distance from the ground. Just as a 
sailor likes to have plenty of " searoom " in a 
storm, an aviator likes to have plenty of " air- 
room." Nevertheless, it certainly gave me a series 
of thrills and a rather empty feeling inside as I 
volplaned earthward by easy degrees, coasting down 
the gentle slope of an airy mountainside. Again 
it was a case of the danger being in the *' landing," 
and I had plenty of worry, for I did not know 



An " Upperclassman " ^I 

whether I should have the good luck to strike a 
cleared field, or the bad luck to plump into a wood 
or through a farmhouse roof. As the land rose 
rapidly I saw what I sought, a field, and made for 
it, landing without accident. 

It took me only a little time to find and fix the 
trouble in my magneto; but, before I was ready to 
reascend, quite a crowd of open-mouthed peasants, 
in their quaint costumes, had gathered, and, when 
I went up, it was with their names and initials pen- 
ciled all over my fuselage, and with several bunches 
of field flowers, gifts of my brief acquaintances. 
I quite looked the part of a hero. 

Dusk had fallen before my flight ended safely 
at home, and that night I turned in with the feeling 
that I had really taken a step forward on the road 
to the front. 

The day following was the most strenuous of my 
whole training career at Avord. After nine hours 
of almost consecutive flying I came to earth so 
weary that I could scarcely totter; but proud, and 
too happy for words, since I knew that I had fin- 



92 Go, Get 'Em! 



ished my appointed tasks and earned my brevet. 

That morning I had repeated the petit voyage of 
the day before without incident, although, going 
out, my engine labored like an old horse with the 
heaves. Then I did my first grand voyage. This 
meant a trip to Chateauroux, fifty miles ; thence one 
to another small town named Romorantin forty- 
eight miles; and back home to Avord, fifty miles, 
getting my paper signed at each place visited. 
Nothing of special interest distinguished this tri- 
angular voyage, and, late in the afternoon, I started 
to cover the trail again, the other way around. 

On the last leg of it, when dusk was already 
falling like a soft mantle over the earth below, a 
sudden storm blew up, and I plunged into a flock 
of billowy gray clouds. They blinded and seemed 
almost to stifle me. For a quarter of an hour I 
wove in and out through them, half the time being 
unable to see my hand on the control stick, now 
coming out above them into the evening sunlight, 
which tinged their rolling upper surfaces with a 
golden glow, and then below, so that they formed 



R E Pr B I. ly I ' I. FR WQAISF. 
MINISTERE DE LA GUERRE 

A<-i><,naulu|uc Milit.-ni'.- 

BREVET 
D'AVIATEUR MILITAIRE 

-7^— ^'/ ''"'■ 



/„ / . 



/- 



/, 







^■^^^ 



MR. WELLMAN S COMMISSION AS AVIATOR IN THE 
FRENCH ARMY 



An ^^ Upperclassman " 93 

a soft, dark canopy just over my head. Tired of 
this at last, I piqued down from my then altitude of 
twenty-five hundred meters to one of five hundred, 
where the flying was clearer, but very rough, and 
when I reached home it was with a sigh of hearty 
thanksgiving that I struck terra firma, and received 
the congratulations of my friends. 

On Saturday, September twenty-ninth, I received 
my brevet and pilote's license — a gold and silver 
wreath with two wings — with a brief word of com- 
mendation from the Commandant. The exultant 
satisfaction that it brought with it more than re- 
paid me for all the petty discomforts of the camp. 
I was now a corporal in the French army and en- 
titled to wear a single golden wing on either side of 
my collar. They somehow seemed to me to carry 
magic, like those on Mercury's staff, 

P'urthermore, I was entitled to ten days' leave, 
but this time the privilege was only an irritation, 
as I did not have money enough even to buy a ticket 
to Paris — and, of course, " leave '' without 
** Paris " was no leave at all. 



94 Go, Get 'Em! 



The front now began to seem mighty close ahead ; 
but it was separated from me bya final brief train- 
ing at Avord in a Nieuport — the light, fast, fight- 
ing machine commonly used at the front — and the 
advanced acrobatics at Pau and Plessis Belleville. 

Said quickly, it did not seem like much ; but once 
again I was doomed to spend two solid weeks in 
twiddling my thumbs and seeing everything through 
dark blue glasses, for the weather was awful. 
Rain, high winds and mists were on the program 
day after day, so that I succeeded in adding scarcely 
anything to my record of fifty hours' flying. Fifty 
hours, three thousand minutes — at a dollar a min- 
ute, three thousand dollars ! That is what a private 
teacher would have charged at home, and I had 
got it for nothing ! 

By this time the conditions of living had begun 
to get on my nerves, and my unhappiness was fur- 
ther increased by the fact that the French-American 
flying corps had been broken up by the departure 
of a considerable number of my former comrades, 
who had joined the U. S. service. During this 



An " Upperclassman " 95 

time, too, our barracks were shifted to an old barn, 
but recently vacated by a number of horses, and 
even the fresh coat of whitewash could not success- 
fully disguise that fact. You American boys, in 
your new model camps, will never know the *' hor- 
rors of war " as illustrated by the best that stricken 
France could do for her men in training. But, 
on looking back at my experiences, I am not sure 
but that mine was the better part, for it made the 
front seem like heaven by comparison. You have 
got to reverse the procedure. 

Even in writing this I feel in a hurry to get 
away from Avord for good, so I will not pause to 
describe the wonderful little Nieuports until later. 

Eventually we got a few fairly respectable days 
and, to my equal delight and surprise, I was " grad- 
uated " on October twenty-first. I had gone 
through the school in five months, outstripping sev- 
eral who had preceded me there. 

During this brief preliminary training in a Nieii- 
port I made my first acquaintance with the *' Vick- 
ers " rapid fire gun — which I was later to use — 



96 Go, Get 'Em! 



taking it apart and studynig the construction. As 
I was not deeply versed in mechanical lore, this gun 
on an airplane impressed me as something uncanny, 
for it sent seven hundred shots a minute through 
the whirling blades of the propeller, which, in a 
fast-flying chasse machine, revolve no less than 
seventeen hundred times every sixty seconds. 
Think of the delicate mechanism required to time 
the two accurately. I have since read in the news- 
paper that the explanation of this seeming impossi- 
bility is that the shafts of the propeller blades are 
sheathed with metal at the point near the axis where 
the bullets pass, and that approximately thirty per 
cent, of them do hit. That certainly is absolutely 
untrue in the case of any machine I ever used or 
saw. The blades were all of unprotected wood, 
and occasionally a shot would pierce them clean, 
the reason being, I was told, that the gun had be- 
come overheated, and exploded a cartridge out of 
its proper timing. 

Two incidents, not on the calendar, happened just 
before I left the school. First, one of the wheels 



An '^ Upperclassman " 97 

of my machine came off as 1 was about to leave the 
ground on a practice flight, and both plane and I 
turned two complete somersaults without serious 
damage to either. Then, one afternoon, while I 
was cranking my machine, I foolishly allowed my 
head to get too near the spinning propeller, and 
received an uppercut on my right cheek, just below 
the eye, the blow neatly slicing off a piece of skin. 
It was a close shave in two senses, and my fortu- 
nate escape from a more serious injury reminded 
some of the oldtimers that, early in the Spring, a 
young Yankee student had actuall}/ been decapitated 
in that manner. 

I shook the dust of Avord from my feet with no 
regrets, although I left many good friends there, 
and, on the twenty-first of October, in company 
with David Judd, went to Paris for forty-eight 
hours before having to report at Pau. By this time 
my apparently slight head wound had begun to 
suppurate, and it looked so bad, and felt so painful, 
that one of the first things I did upon reaching 
the French metropolis was to visit Dr. Gros. The 



98 Go, Get 'Em! 



cut was too close to my eye to take any chances 
with, I felt. 

He found that the cheek bone had been splintered 
and that a sliver of it was still in the wound. A 
slight operation was necessary to remove it, and I 
left his ofiRce looking like a real hero, with my uni- 
form and bandaged head and eye. 

One musical show was the extent of my frivoU- 
ties in Paris that trip ; but I played the part of a glut- 
ton when it came to eating, sleeping and *' lazing." 
On the twenty-fourth Judd and I left Southward, 
bound for the last stage of the long journey toward 
the goal of my desires — " The Fighting Front." 



CHAPTER VI 



" STUNTS " 



Pau, a famous summer resort of some thirty-five 
thousand inhabitants — peace basis, — located in the 
extreme south of France, with Spain but a few miles 
distant across the snow-peaked Pyrenees, is wonder- 
fully beautiful. After Avord it was like Paradise 

to me. 

I hope some day to visit again the lovely city, 
with its magnificent hotels and merry recreations, 
for, although our camp was some little distance 
away, and the weather was turning cold, so that I 
was there only two weeks, chocked full of work, the 
place is one of wholly delightful memories. 

" Duke " Sinclair, Judd and I were still together 
— three modern musketeers,— and our quarters 
overlooked the beautiful rolling fields that stretched 
away, bisected by a pleasant, winding stream, to the 

99 



100 Go, Get 'Em! 



foot of the mountain steeps. Never before had I 
seen such glorious sunsets and sunrises, with the 
glowing multi-colored tints reflected on the glisten- 
ing mountain tops, and, since the old schedule of 
working from sun-up to sun-down held, I never 
missed one of them. 

Pau was our ** finishing school." We were done 
with the drudgery of the " reading, Viting and 'rith- 
metic " of aviation, and ready to learn the airy 
graces without which both a society debutante and a 
flying fighter are helpless. 

The machines used here were the real fighting 
Nieuports of varying sizes and speeds. What a 
beauty I thought the first one that was given me to 
fly, a slender little thoroughbred compared with the 
drayhorse Caudron. Its fuselage was long and 
tapering, its wings only eighteen meters from tip to 
tip and its engine and eighty horse-power rotary 
Rhone, which alone was worth something over 
twenty-five hundred dollars. Yet even this was low- 
powered and cumbersome beside the type T was soon 
to fly. Nevertheless, it could make better than a 



^^ Stunts" lOI 



hundred miles an hour, and the exhilaration pro- 
duced by traveling through the stinging cold air at 
that speed was the most glorious sensation I had 
ever known. When it came to making a landing at 
a speed scarcely less, it took a perfect eye and a no 
less perfect judgment, not to mention nerve. 

The first class in " stunts " was called the vol de 
groupe. In plain English it was a game of follow 
the leader. One man would set the pace and the 
other, for we worked in pairs at first and later in 
quartets, would follow fifty meters behind and the 
same distance above — -if he could. 

The first day I went up trailing " Juddy," and at 
first I flew so close that I could read the small letter 
on his essence tank. He pointed upward in a steep 
spiral climb and in five minutes we had reached an 
altitude of two thousand meters — more than a 
mile. How those Nieuports could climb ! 

For two hours he circled about, with me follow- 
ing as closely as possible to the prescribed distance. 
With one's machine going at a hundred miles an 
hour, you can perhaps imagine how hard it is to 



102 Go, Get 'Em! 



keep at anything like a stated distance, especially as 
you have no idea what the " leader " is going to do 
next. Judd might pique suddenly and leave me 
shooting off into space like a rifle ball, and I could 
imagine him laughing at me. It v^as a great game, 
and, although it was physically tiring, I was sorry 
to see him head for the field. 

We flew almost every possible moment during the 
second, third and fourth of November in this vol de 
groupe. The last flight alternated between three 
thousand, and fifty meter altitudes, and, at the lower 
level, it was as exciting as any steeple chase. This 
time Sinclair was leader, and three wild boys never 
played more foolish pranks than he, Judd and 1 that 
afternoon. To end up, he spotted a train, and led 
us in circles around and only a little above it, like 
dolphins playing about a slow tramp steamer. If 
our motors had quit when we were at that small 
altitude it would have spelt the end of all games, 
but luck was with us, and we certainly gave the 
passengers a few thrills not called for by their 
tickets. 



'' Stunts " 103 



The next day I was moved up a rung on the lad- 
der leading to success, and given, to use in my track- 
ing, a hundred and ten horse-powered, thirteen 
meter winged plane, still a Nieuport, whose speed 
was one hundred and thirty miles an hour. This 
was the most powerful and nimble plane I had ever 
flown, and the feeling of having mastery over it was 
delicious, for it answered to the slightest touch. 

There followed a few days of individual practice 
in the more complicated " stunts," without the 
knowledge of which a fighting pilot would be help- 
less against an expert adversary. They may be said 
to correspond to the " foot-work " of a skilled 
boxer. 

The simplest was the loop the loop, which needs 
no description. Then followed the vrille, or spin- 
ning nose dive, with motor cut off, and this, too, is 
almost self-explanatory. Of course the plane dives 
vertically and at the same time turns on its own 
axis. I was later to learn that a great variety of ac- 
cidents would throw my plane into the vrille, and, 
in order to enter it deliberately, it was only neces- 



104 ^^' ^^^ '^^' 



sary to pique vertically down by dipping my rear 
controls and then tip the side ailerons either way, 
whereupon the machine would proceed to imitate a 




Looping the Loop 
magnified corkscrew in an airy bottle containing a 
draught as exhilarating as champagne, and almost 
as " heady " at times, for the sudden dive from the 
rarer atmosphere of the high altitudes to the denser 
air near the earth produced a pressure which I some- 
times had to counteract by compressing the air inside 
my head with cheeks extended. 

Here let me answer a question which has been 
asked me often — '' What do you aviators wear to 



'' Stunts " 105 



protect your eyes and faces from the rush of wind? '* 
The answer is, '' Nothing." A leather helmet, fur- 
lined, covers the head like a child's knitted woolen 
one ; but the only protection that the face gets is that 
furnished by a glass windshield like that on an auto- 
mobile. " But," sometimes say my questioners, 
** isn't a glass shield dangerous ? Suppose it is shat- 
tered by a bullet." The answer is, if that happens 
the chances are nine hundred and ninety-nine out of 
a thousand that the flyer will not be worrying about 
flying glass, or anything else for long. Of course, 
some airmen wear goggles, but I never did. 

Then followed the tournant. It proved to be very 
simple and amusing. You merely give the control 
stick a swift jerk to one side and back, and the plane 
rolls completely over in the air as quick as a wink. 
Its particular purpose is to make your machine a 
more difficult object to hit when you are being 
shot at. 

I next tackled " Russian Mountain," the renverse- 
ment and the vertical virage, and since they are all 
highly important to the fighter and I shall have occa- 



I06 Go, Get 'Em! 



sion to use the terms frequently hereafter, I will 
endeavor to make their meaning clear, both by word 
and picture description. 

The first mentioned consists merely in diving with 






A "Russian Mountain" 

motor going, then shutting it off so that the strain 
on the plane will not be more than it can stand up 
under, and suddenly straightening out parallel to 
the earth by pushing the control stick from you and 



'' Stunts " 107 



so elevating the rear ailerons, then starting the mo- 
tor and again raising the elevator, which causes 
your plane to shoot upward. The machine is not 
the only thing to feel the strain of these abrupt 
checks and turns in midair. You who have ridden 
on a steep roller-coaster with sharp dips, can guess 
what I mean, and, if you can imagine the speed 
increased twofold, you will understand how it came 
about that I was minus my breakfast after the first 
time that I tried it. 




A Renversement 
The second, the renversement, changes the direc- 
tion of your plane in the following manner : You 



I08 Go, Get 'Em! 



start upward in a loop the loop, and, when ilying 
head downward, cut off the motor and by tilting the 
side ailerons go into a wingslip and continue this in 
a semicircle until your machine has turned over and 
resumed a horizontal position going in the direction 
opposite from the one in which it was headed a few 
seconds before. This is a highly useful trick when 
an enemy is behind and above you, and you want to 
reverse positions so as to dive on him. Flying up- 
side down sounds desperate, I suppose ; but it is not. 
You are held in, both by centrifical force and the 
body straps which come up under your thighs, cross 
your shoulders and fasten over your stomach by a 
mechanical device which will instantly spring open 
and release you upon being struck a smart blow. 
Besides, most of these tricks are pulled off so quickly 
that you have no time to consider the fact that you 
are not in the position normal to man, and, when 
you are two or three miles in the air, the earth has 
ceased to be the thing by which you govern your 
movements. 

The vertical virage is a quick reversal of direc- 



" Stunts " 109 



tion, made by turning sharply on the same plane, 
with your machine banked until it is tilted almost at 
right angles to the earth. 

I went through the whole performance, loops, 




A Vertical Virage 

vrilleSy tournanfSj virages, and renversements, in a 
single day, but it was no unusual thing for a chap 
to be so sick at first that he would be laid up for 
two or three days. This happened in Sinclair's 
case. 

Then I tackled the so-called vol de precision, which 
was another game — a game of quoits, with your 
machine as the quoit. A small white circle, some 
twenty yards in diameter, was painted upon the mid- 
dle of the field, and we were told to go up to an alti- 
tude of a thousand meters, cut our motors, plane 
until the propeller was motionless and then pique 
and head for the circle. Landing within it twice in 



no Go, Get 'Em! 



succession passed us out of this class. I accom- 
plished it after one failure; but Tom Hitchcock, 
who arrived at Pau soon after I did, was successful 
on his first two attempts and, in fact, went through 
the school there as he had at Avord, *' a-flying." 
This test, of course, was one of eyesight in aiming 
for the mark and of judgment in redressing, or pull- 
ing up at exactly the right moment. The machine 
hit the ground like a bat out of hell. 

The final class was termed the vol de combat, and, 
although it was still only a game, it fired my blood 
and made me wild to try out the real thing. The 
first half represented an actual fight over the first 
line trenches, whose location was marked by the 
little river below, and it was patterned as closely as 
possible upon what we were later to experience 
almost daily in dead earnest. 

Three of the expert French flyers, with a leader, 
were detailed to represent the Boche, and the rest 
of the class, some ten in number, with a veteran in 
command, were the Allies. We went up as opposing 
patrols, putting into practice what we had learned 



^'Stunts" III 



in the vol de groupe, and, for some minutes, flew 
back and forth on opposite sides of the stream. At 
last their leader gave the signal to attack by moving 
his manche a balai rapidly from side to side which 
made his plane rock violently, his idea being to catch 
us unaware and break up our group. The "enemy" 
obeyed, and sprang to the attack. 

On the hood directly in front of me was my 
" gun "— a perfect imitation of a Vickers, fixed and 
pointed forward through the propeller; but, instead 
of a belt of death-dealing cartridges with which to 
annihilate the Boche, it contained a camera and film. 
The shutter was operated by pulling a regulation trig- 
ger attached to my control stick, and just below the 
little wheel that topped it. The trigger was pulled 
by the left hand, of course. 

We had previously received instruction on the 
various methods of attacking an enemy — the theory 
of assaulting a monoplane like our own being to 
gain altitude on it, and dive, from the rear if pos- 
sible, for, as its gun was " fixed " and pointing for- 
ward like our own, the pilot could shoot only by 



112 Go, Get 'Em! 

aiming his whole machine at us. I selected my 
" victim " from the oncoming enemy planes, gained 
my altitude over him, and, with the joy of battle — 
even if it were only a sham — sending the blood 
singing in my ears, I swooped down at him, and 
" shot." 

The combat was over in a few moments, and I re- 
turned to earth to seek out my late opponent and tell 
him, gloatingly, that he was theoretically dead. My 
triumph was short lived. When the film from my 
gun was developed it showed a beautiful expanse 
of clear sky. Of course, to have registered a 
kill, the hostile plane would have had to appear 
on it. 

I may as well state here that in actual battle the 
range is usually obtained by firing flaming, or 
" tracer," bullets, whose course is visible in the form 
of a small streak of fire and smoke. Moreover, 
since machines traveling at a hundred and twenty 
miles and upward, pass each other with terrific speed 
and offer a most illusive target, the custom is never 
to open fire until you are almost on top of the enemy. 



*' Stunts" 113 



Twenty-five yards is too far for accuracy ; fifteen is 
more certain. 

The last half of this battle training took the form 
of an attack on a Boche bombing plane. In a small 
pond there was constructed a canvas target, the 
shape and size of a big " Gotha'/ its actual proto- 
type being a huge unwieldy three-place plane with 
triple motors and propeller. 

I was instructed to ascend and do a few warming- 
up acrobatic stunts, and then finish by doing a 
virage, starting at only five hundred meters above 
the ground. Just before making the horizontal turn 
I was to let the enemy have it. For this I had, of 
course, a real Vickers gun, which would continue to 
shoot as long as my finger remained on the trigger, 
at least it would until the belt of cartridges was ex- 
hausted, or it jammed. 

It did very well for a practice performance; but it 
was not a real test of such fighting, because, in the 
first place, at such a low altitude you had to pay too 
much attention to your plane to give a great deal to 
your marksmanship, and, in the second, no self- 



114 Go, Get 'Em! 



respecting pilot attacks a two or more place machine 
from above. The observer or bomber in the rear 
seat is also a gunner, and his weapon is swiveled, so 
that you furnish him an easy mark if you dive down 
at him. 

On my first attempt I landed ten out of a possible 
hundred shots in the target, and on my second bet- 
tered this by two, which, the instructor said, was not 
bad shooting. Nor was it, considering the fact that 
we had had no gunnery practice, and the aiming had 
to be done, not with the gun but with the ma- 
chine. One shot in a vital spot would do the busi- 
ness ! 

My fortnight at Pau was one of unalloyed de- 
light, and its successful termination brought my 
commission as corporal, and a certificate upon which 
the commandant wrote the words, '' A born aviator, 
but crazy." (I told you that I took chances, after I 
had learned the rudiments.) In fact the common 
expression among French flyers was, " Tous les 
Americains sont fous'' — which, being interpreted, 
means, " All the Americans are crazy," and it was 



''Stunts" 115 



a term complimentary rather than otherwise. 

Moreover, this ended my worries, for, with my 
certificate, went a recommendation that I be given 
a Spad monoplane fighting chasse (the word 
" Spad " being coined from the initials of the mak- 
ers) which was the fastest French plane then used, 
having a two hundred and twenty horse-power fixed 
Espano-Suiza motor. 

I was sent immediately, on November twelfth, to 
Plessis Belleville to await my assignment to an 
Escadrille at the front, and, with an occasional brief 
leave spent in Paris, remained there until December 
third. , 

Plessis Belleville, a few hours' ride outside the 
Metropolis, somehow sounded delightful, as though 
it might be a charming little suburb. It was in 
reality a good deal of a dump, and, since the bar- 
racks were then overcrowded and the army canteen 
had been closed for some reason or other, I had to 
hire a room in an inexpensive but clean lodging 
house, run by an energetic gray-haired little English 
woman named Mrs. Abbott, and buy my own meals. 



Il6 Go, Get 'Em! 

If money had been scarce before, now it seemed to 
vanish on wings, and only a belated gift from home, 
promptly sent in response to an earlier wail, saved 
me from committing crime. Moreover, I had only 
one uniform, and, since I would have had to go to 
bed to have this pressed, it went wrinkled, which 
was disconcerting, for my companions told me that 
the French government liked to have its men well 
dressed when they were captured by the Germans, 
and I did not like to face the thought of disgracing 
the flag under which I flew. 

However, I hoped for the best, trusting that Santa 
Claus would prove to be a mind reader, and spent 
almost every moment of the much diminished day- 
light in training flights in my wonderful new ma- 
chine, and in gun practice. 

The first Spad which they gave me to try out in 
had a hundred and fifty horse-power, super-com- 
pressed engine, which developed one hundred and 
eighty. It mounted a single Vickers gun shooting 
through the propeller as I have described. 

Plessis Belleville ended my postgraduate special- 



'' Stunts" 117 



izing course of training. It also very nearly ended 
my life. As I have said, I flew daily whenever the 
weather offered the slightest possibility of going up, 
even though it might be cloudy and windy, for by 
this time I had come to regard myself as a competent 
pilot, fully able to handle a plane under all ordinary 
conditions, and was at the same time determined to 
practice, practice, practice until I was more than 
merely competent. 

Here let me say that mere wind of a velocity that 
ten years ago would have made flying suicidal, has 
now no terrors to the pilot of a modern, high- 
powered, speedy machine. We can ride an ordinary 
gale and laugh at it, although there is little laughing 
done when it comes to landing in one. The air is 
always more treacherous near the ground. Nor 
are the much talked of and dreaded " air-holes " of 
a decade ago any longer things of terror. They are 
present, of course, and occasionally your machine 
will drop suddenly in one ; but the speedy planes gen- 
erally slide over them as does a flying skater over a 
stretch of thin ice. Heavy mist and very low hang- 



Il8 Go, Get 'Em! 



ing clouds — in fact anything which produces what 
the sailors call " low visibility " — are the bane of 
the flyer's existence, for one cannot feel his way 
through the air as he does on the ground, and it is 
a bit difficult to avoid an unsuspected obstacle when 
coming suddenly upon it, at a speed of better than a 
hundred miles an hour. 

On one of the last days of my work at Plessis 
Belleville the gray, wintry-looking clouds were very 
low and lowering, not more than three hundred 
yards above the earth, but I flew morning and after- 
noon, nevertheless, and about four o'clock was back 
on the field for a new supply of gas, when the moni- 
tor called out, ** Last ride of the night," and then, 
turning to me, added, " Wellman, take your ma- 
chine." 

I obeyed, got started, and climbed in leisurely 
circles until my plane was just about to nose inquisi- 
tively into the unpleasant moist bank above, when I 
straightened out and glanced downward. I could 
not see a thing. The world had vanished, swal- 
lowed up in fog, dull white and impenetrable. 



<' Stunts" 119 



Once, in the movies, I had seen a thrilling melo- 
drama in which the floor of a secret chamber rose 
ceilingwards to crush the imprisoned heroine. I 
felt a good deal as though something of the sort was 
happening to me. Of course I could dive through 
that floor much as Alice went through the dissolving 
looking-glass, but in my case it would not help much 
if I could not see the earth until I felt it. Still, 
there was nothing else to be done, and I turned to 
the left as is customary in making a tour de piste, 
piqued down, and headed for the spot where I 
thought that I might be able to pick up the two 
railroad stations as guideposts in locating the field. 
You know the feeling of a small child lost in the 
dark. I had it. I did not have the faintest idea 
where to turn, or whether I was right side up, and 
it was steadily growing darker. Suddenly my mo- 
tor determined my course of action for me by stop- 
ping dead, and then my sensations changed from 
helpless uncertainty to acute anxiety, for there was 
nothing left for me to do but dive from my altitude 
of two hundred and fifty meters, and trust to luck. 



120 Go, Get 'Em! 



I braced my feet and gritted my teeth to keep my 
heart a part of my anatomy, while the cold sweat 
started out all over me. Suddenly the mist grew 
a little thinner, and I dimly made out the formation 
of a small field, heavily wooded on either side, not 
more than a hundred and fifty feet below. Without 
my motor to pull me clear, and lacking altitude to 
glide over the tree tops I could do nothing but keep 
on into the pocket. As I rushed downward I real- 
ized that I was headed into a field filled with old 
barbwire entanglements erected by the Boche when 
they were stopped at this place, during the first battle 
of the Marne, in their drive for Paris in 19 14. Now 
my fright, growing out of my utter helplessness, 
turned to anger at Fate in playing me such a scurvy 
trick. With clinched teeth I put into practice the 
old rule, " when in doubt, keep on," and went into 
the wire like a football player hitting the line. My 
machine crashed to a sudden stop, I felt myself 
being shot from it like a rock out of a catapult, there 
was a blinding flash like lightning before my eyes, 
and then . . . nothing. 



Stunts " 121 



My next impression was produced by the taste of 
some vile French wine. My head began to split 
open with pain, and I dazedly unclosed my eyes to 
the sight of the sides of a rude farm wagon. I was 
still alive, then, I thought with some astonishment, 
and I found myself dumbling whispering the words, 
" * Laugh and Live,' God bless old Douglas Fair- 
banks." The cheery philosophy contained in his 
book, which had been my only literature for months, 
had come to my aid. 

What had happened during my absence from the 
world of conscious things, was this, I found. My 
fall into the wire and solo flight through the air, 
which had ended in a headfirst dive into the ground, 
had been witnessed by a farmer's lad. He had 
taken it for granted that I was dead, and had hur- 
ried to town, half an hour's trip distant, to get his 
father. The latter had returned with his farm 
horse and wagon and found me, an hour after my 
accident, lying unconscious, and with my face 
ground into the dirt. Naturally my machine was 
smashed to bits, but, by the grace of God, I was 



122 Go, Get 'Em! 



merely bunged up a little, and, although I was kept 
in the camp hospital for three days, at the end of the 
period I came out as good as new. 

On Saturday, December the first, I was given my 
fur-lined combination flying suit, warm boots and 
duffle bag to keep them in, signed out of the school, 
and told to go to Paris and await my final assign- 
ment to the front. Moreover, the same day brought 
a big package of heavy underwear, socks and a 
sweater from home, and a marvelous comfort bag 
from another source, so I was fully equipped for the 
fray. 



CHAPTER VII 



BOCHE BOMBS 



My schooling was ended. I was a full-fledged 
birdman, and, eager to try my wings in the work for 
which they had been trained, I went to Paris. 

A whole week-end was mine before I had to report 
for duty with Escadrille N. 87 in the Lorraine sec- 
tor near Nancy — my orders having reached me the 
same day that I reached Paris — and I resolved to 
make the most of it. 

To my great pleasure one of the first persons 
whom I met at the hotel * Trangois Choiseul " on 
Rue Saint Honore was a charming and courageous 
American girl, whom I knew very well. That even- 
ing we went together to see a musical comedy, which 
I enjoyed almost as much as though I had been able 
to understand the words. After all, any one who 
has attended such in America knows that the lines 

123 



124 Go, Get 'Em! 



are non-essential, and this is doubly true in Paris. 

On our way back to the hotel we stopped for light 
refreshments at the " Cafe de la Paix/' It was 
nearly midnight when we stepped from its brilliant 
lights into the cold, clear night. The streets were 
quiet, few pedestrians were about, and, high above, 
the night sky seemed inestimably distant, and the 
stars merely sparkles of diamond dust. 

Night air raids by the Boche barbarians had be- 
come so frequent an occurrence that it seemed almost 
strange not to hear the air-splitting clamor of the 
Alcrte, and the sounds of explosions, nearby and 
deafening, or rumbling in the distance. 

With little conversation we walked together under 
the spell of the peaceful night. One instant the si- 
lence was that of a slumbering city. The next it 
was shattered by the most appalling detonation and 
crash. The earth shuddered and the rush of air 
from the concussion nearly threw us from our feet. 

Before the reverberations of the first explosion^ 
had ceased there came another, but a little farther 
off, and instantly a third. Then, to the terrible clat- 



Boche Bombs 125 



ter of falling buildings and the terrified cries from 
the few people on the streets and from windows hur- 
riedly thrown open, was added the nerve-racking 
pandemonium of the Alerte — the long-drawn 
Banshee wail of the siren, the piercing notes of the 
bugle and the clamoring chorus of horns, all inter- 
mingled in one insane dissonance. 

It was the warning that the Boche bombing ma- 
chines were coming over the city. Were coming? 
They had come, with a vengeance, and their work of 
fiendish destruction had been completed before their 
arrival was even suspected. 

How had it happened ? A guess which I hazarded 
was confirmed by the brief press report the following 
morning. With the satanic ingenuity of the Hun in 
evildoing, two of their bombing Gothas had climbed 
to a dizzy altitude during their trip Parisward, and, 
when they approached the listening posts which 
encircle the city several miles distant, had cut out 
their motors and volplaned over them as silently as 
any night birds of prey, escaping detection entirely. 

They had dropped three deadly torpedo bombs on 



126 Go, Get 'Em! 



a district less than half a mile from us, near the 
" Hotel de Ville," on Rue Saint Germaine, and had 
demolished one whole block of store and apartment 
buildings. A big gas reservoir had also been 
struck and shattered. 

I looked at my companion, and found her calmer 
than I was. 

" Shall I take you to the hotel? " I asked. 

" Do you want to go there ? " she answered in 
Yankee fashion. 

I told her that I wanted rather to see what damage 
had been done, and, like a good sport and real Amer- 
ican, she said at once that she would accompany me. 

We headed in the direction of the explosions, at a 
walk that was half run. As we proceeded, others 
joined us; but we did not need their guidance, for 
now the sky was alight from flames that had shot 
up with astonishing quickness. In less than ten 
minutes we had reached our destination. 

What a scene of desolation and horror! One 
whole block of brick buildings had been wrecked; 
portions of it were in ruins, razed to the ground; 



Boche Bombs 127 



other portions, shattered and already afire, still 
stood; but were on the verge of crumbling. The 
nearby gas container was blazing fiercely, the ruddy 
flames thrusting their quivering tongues high into 
the air. 

We joined the scattered but momentarily increas- 
ing crowd, many of whom, in every stage of attire, 
had rushed from neighboring homes, and directly in 
front of us was a spectacle to haunt one's dreams. 
Held with difficulty by five men was a French 
soldier, stark mad. There was no need to ask the 
reason, for the word was being tossed from lip to 
lip by the horrified watchers. He had just come 
home to find his wife killed outright, and, at that 
moment, his baby son was on the top floor of the 
house opposite, which was a mass of flames and 
every staircase down. 

As the Gendarmes on duty had not arrived, con- 
fusion reigned; but representatives of one organiza- 
tion were there. The Red Cross was on the spot, 
ready, as always, to render its varied and glorious 
aid at a moment's notice. 



128 Go, Get 'Em! 



Everywhere were heard shouts and cries, agonized 
shrieks, and the sound of heartbreaking sobs. 

" Do you mind if I leave you and see if there is 
anything that I can do to help? " I asked. 

" Go/' she said. 

In company with a Red Cross worker and several 
civiHans, I pushed into one of the burning buildings, 
and through the thickening smoke until in one room 
I heard the low moaning of some one in great pain. 
It was an old woman, partly dressed, her gray locks 
matted with blood flowing from her cut face, and 
her breasts horribly gashed by flying glass or falling 
timbers. I carried her out, surrendered her into 
the charge of the Red Cross, which had already 
started a first aid dressing station in a barber shop, 
and ran back. This time childish cries led me to a 
room, where I found a little girl not more than six 
years old. She was lying in her nightgown beside 
the wreck of her cot bed. Both of her legs were 
broken just below the knees, and hung limply as I 
picked her up in my arms. I carried her out also, 
and this time found the Gendarmes had arrived to 



Boche Bombs 129 



take charge of the situation — quick, nervous, but 
efficient, little men who, from much practice, knew 
just what to do and how best to do it. 

Quite willing to leave the work of further rescue 
to them, for I was now nervously if not physically 
exhausted, I found my companion, and we pushed 
our way out through the crowd, which had now 
grown to large proportions, for the neighborhood 
was thickly populated with poor people, and made 
our way through alleys, thickly strewn with broken 
glass, to the main avenue. 

The Alerte was still filling the night with its 
raucous warning, which, as it happened, was no 
longer needed. 

As quickly as possible we found a taxicab, and 
were driven to the hotel, and, just as we disem- 
barked, the signal sounded to announce that the air 
invaders had left. 

Many people were up, and questioned us eagerly 
as to what had happened ; but I was in no mood to 
go into detail that night. 

I slept mighty little. The city outside was again 



130 Go, Get 'Em! 



silent, but in my memory there kept ringing the 
shrieks and cries of strong men driven mad, of weak 
women and innocent children shattered and burned. 
If there had been something of mere excitement- 
craving in my earlier desire to fly for France, it was 
that night wiped out utterly. 

We may talk about the historic bravery of France, 
and rightly, for it exists in full measure, but any na- 
tion would fight like supermen after seeing — not 
once, but again and again — what I saw that night, 
and seeing it happen to their own flesh and blood. 
How can the German mind be explained when it im- 
agines that such fiendish atrocities will shatter the 
morale of a finely bred, highly civilized race? Such 
a people are not like animals, to cringe and flee be- 
fore a show of brutality. France and England 
have not, and we shall not, when our turn comes, as 
I truly believe that it will if the war continues. 

Before I went to sleep I made a silent vow that — 
D. V. — 1 would do my little best to avenge a few of 
the one hundred and fifty noncombatants who had 
been the victims of Boche bombs that night. 



CHAPTER VIII 

HIGH SPOTS 

I HAVE heard people speak of Paris as still wearing 
a gay cloak of many colors over a heart filled with 
black grief. As applied to the real Parisians this is 
not true, but there is plenty of superficial gayety 
supplied by the foreign element, especially the 
soldiers of many nations, on leave or furlough there. 
These have seen so much of horror at the front that 
they do not care to permit its shadow to darken the 
sunlit moments of the rest periods, if they can help 
it. One may witness a tragedy like that of which 
I have just written, one night, and the next take part 
in a burlesque comedy which makes the thought of 
war being at the very gates seem impossible. 

Death by air raiders at night is shocking rather 
than sublime ; but I passed from it to the ridiculous, 
in one short step during my two day stay in Paris. 

131 



132 Go, Get 'Em! 



It happened in the Folies Bergeres, which — as 
every one who has *' done '* Paris knows — is an 
immense and extremely popular theater and dance 
hall combined, a conventional stage and pit within, 
and outside this, a foyer, or promenade, with a 
wonderful fountain in its center, and an orchestra 
in an overhanging balcony. On all sides are tables 
for those who prefer to sit at their ease and eat, 
drink and be merry, while listening to the orchestra's 
music, rather than to take in the show, 

A party of flyers, of whom I was one, entered it 
that night and purchased promenade tickets which 
also entitled us to enter the theater and watch the 
show. Not wanting to miss anything, we took it in 
before sampling the pleasures offered without. 

The show itself was not particularly impressive — 
all that I remember of it is that it was some sort of 
a burlesque on a tragic historical happening, scream- 
ingly funny at the start, apparently, judging from 
the general hilarity, but ending as a melodrama. 
That is, it was intended to end thus, but just when 
Marie Antoinette — or whoever the fair heroine was 



High Spots 133 



supposed to be — had laid her head, crowned with 
artificial curls, on the guillotine, preparatory to its 
being severed from her swanlike neck by a very real- 
istic knife, a wild western warwhoop rang out 
through the tensely still audience. Down the center 
aisle, with long, lunging strides, went a big, stunning 
figure of athletic build and clad in French blue, but 
obviously an American. 

We all knew him well enough, for he was one of 
the wealthiest and most genuinely popular-on-his- 
own account men of the corps, a man who was a 
super-flyer and had already done wonderful work at 
the front. Here I shall inflict upon him the distinc- 
tive name of John Smith, because — as real authors 
say — that was not his name at all. With a grace- 
ful jump, that would have done credit to a deer or a 
champion high hurdler. Smith cleared the heads of 
the orchestra; nor did he pause until he had per- 
formed a male impersonation of Pocahontas over 
the prostrate figure of the doomed heroine. 

The knife did not fall, so he picked her up bodily 
and set her squarely upon her feet. This done, he 



134 G^' ^^^ 'Em! 



faced the audience, which was now howling with 
merriment and cheering his valiant rescue to the 
echo. Suddenly he " came to " enough to realize the 
absurdity of his position, his triumphant smile 
turned sickly, and he blushed like a school girl. 
Then two Gendarmes, who together would scarcely 
have made one of him, advanced from the wings and 
led him gently out of the spotlight, meanwhile ad- 
monishing him to try and be a little quieter. Smith 
offered no opposition, but went peacefully, and we 
thought that we had seen and heard the last of him 
for that night. But it seemed that he had only been 
warming up for the evening's entertainment. 

The act ended after a fashion, and everybody, in- 
cluding myself, went out to enjoy the promenade 
and concert. There was a babel of laughing 
voices for a little while, then above it rang out the 
familiar war whoop, and through the crowd of 
merrymakers burst Smith. He made for the foun- 
tain, jumped lightly onto its base and poised like 
Venus, arrayed in a handsome French uniform be- 
decked with the medals of a hero. Then, in he went 



High Spots 135 

head-first, and, coming up, proceeded to give a free 
demonstration of all the latest fancy strokes, a la 
Annette Kellermann, with explanations. 

His old friends, the Gendarmes, appeared again 
and started to remove him; but each time that one 
approached to the attack he was met with a watery 
barrage. Frenchmen are apparently not keen for 
water, so Smith successfully defended his position 
until he was tired of the game, and decided to come 
out of his own accord. 

When he did emerge his uniform was glistening 
like silk and clinging to him like tights. The Gen- 
darmes marched him off in belated triumph to let 
him dry out and sober up, but Sinclair and I stepped 
in and supplied bail and took him under our charge. 



CHAPTER IX 



LUNEVILLE 



December third I opened the door to the new life 
which I had set my heart upon so many months 
before. I was at last an Aviateur Pilot e Americain, 
and a Soldier of France in the newest branch of the 
old, honorable and world-famous Foreign Legion 
that had, for generations back, made history in every 
war in which France has engaged. And I was on 
the threshold of taking a personal part in the great- 
est war that has ever occurred in human history. 

Escadrille N. 87, I was advised, was located at 
Luneville, in Lorraine, two stations beyond Nancy, 
and so some four hundred and fifty miles south of 
Paris. I knew, of course, that this particular sector 
was comparatively inactive at that time ; but this fact 
did not trouble me, even though I wanted to get 
quickly into action, for I had come to the conclusion 

136 



Luneville 137 



that the more experience I could obtain before things 
warmed up with the coming of Spring, the better 
fitted I should be to play my part in the ** warming." 

I left Paris at seven-thirty in the morning to make 
the fourteen-hour trip on a slow train packed with 
soldiers returning to the front. As I was pretty 
well tired out after my long training, capped by my 
two night experiences, I slept almost all the way to 
Nancy, which we reached at five-thirty in the after- 
noon. A half hour for supper at a little restaurant 
that I was to visit again, and I boarded another 
train for the last lap of my journey to the fighting 
front, and arrived at my destination at half past 
seven. 

I had thought Paris dark. What, then, was my 
feeling as I stepped from the train at Luneville. 
It was only ten miles back of the first line trenches, 
and was, of course, emptied of all civilians except 
those connected with caring for the army. The 
houses and streets were all in darkness which would 
have made Egypt's night broad daylight by com- 
parison, for every door and window was screened, 



138 Go, Get 'Em! 



and even the autos which went through the pocket- 
black streets, " hell bent for election," carried no 
lights. 

Captain Azire of my new Escadrille, a dark, hand- 
some little Frenchman, who wore the usual pointed 
black mustache, was on hand to greet me at the sta- 
tion, having been notified of my impending arrival, 
and, after we had shaken hands, he guided me 
through the inkiness to my new home. I could not, 
naturally, distinguish anything about it as we en- 
tered; but, as I came to know it later, it proved a 
homelike, attractive place, utterly different from the 
rude barracks which had been my portion for many 
months. 

Before the war had desolated the land, our 
chateau had been the domicile of a French count 
who, with his family, was now somewhere In the 
south of France. It was a typical little chateau, 
square, built of stone blocks, and three stories high. 
A ten-foot high stone wall, with a now rusty iron 
gate in the center, surrounded it, fronting a broad 
street with pebble sidewalks and lined with old trees. 



Luneville 139 



Within the gate was a narrow pebble path which 
ran up to the big front door, and then branched off 
and went around one side of the house to the 
kitchen. On the right of this, in the front lawn, 
now, of course, covered with snow, was a little foun- 
tain, and on the left was a big tree, beneath which 
we placed small tables and chairs and did our loung- 
ing when Spring came, for the house boasted no 
piazza. The nearest approach to such a thing were 
the diminutive iron balconies outside each of the 
tall, Venetian windows. 

Feeling something like a new boy at school, I fol- 
lowed Captain Azire into the hallway, and to a big 
room, on the right, which served the occupants as a 
combination living- and dining-room. It was high- 
studded, and the light gray walls were bare of the 
family pictures which had once adorned them, and 
which were now — in company with the other valu- 
ables of the household — ^ safely locked in a room 
across the hall. In the center was a big table capa- 
ble of seating fifteen, and an upright piano. A 
man in the uniform of a sergeant of aviation was 



140 Go, Get 'Em! 



drumming away at it as we entered, and a dozen or 
so more were lounging about, smoking, chatting and 
playing cards. 

My comrades to be were all French, with the ex- 
ception of one Russian (three other Americans 
joined us for a short time, later), and I shook hands 
heartily with them as the Captain presented me to 
each in turn. 

After the formalities were ended one of them 
took me to my room upstairs, a plain but good- 
sized chamber with one big mahogany four-poster 
and two small cot beds, a large wardrobe, which took 
the place of a closet, a chest of drawers, commode, 
three chairs and a varied assortment of trunks and 
bags on the floor. Of course, there were no modern 
conveniences, but it seemed like a palace room after 
what I had been living in. 

By this time " dinner was served," and I went 
down to an excellent meal of steak, potatoes and 
beer, during which my difficulties with the French 
language were the cause of much merriment and 
laughter at my expense. 



Luneville 141 



As I was still somewhat weary, and a bit lonesome 
among all those strange faces, I went early to my 
room. Outside it was now snowing heavily, turning 
the darkness to faint gray, and the shut-in feeling, 
which this produced, increased my loneliness. For 
the moment, thoughts of home eclipsed my former 
delight over the achievement of my ambition's goal, 
and it was in this mood that I went to sleep. Out- 
side everything was as quiet as a country church- 
yard that night, although more often than not, there- 
after, I was to be lulled to sleep by the incessant 
sound of the distant bombardment, the reverberant 
booming of the big-caliber guns, the dull crunch of 
the hand grenades, and even the intermittent sharp 
rattle of the rapid-fire guns and rifles which com- 
bined to form a steady concussion that kept the 
old house rattling, and made my bed tremble con- 
stantly. 

At daybreak I was awakened to a sense of un- 
reality and strange surroundings. Then, as the haze 
of sleep passed from my brain, came the thought that 
I was actually at the front and about to begin my 



142 Go, Get 'Em! 



military career in earnest. I jumped from my nar- 
row cot into the chilly air and looked out of the 
window. It faced the east, and my gaze traveled 
over a snowclad, rolling countryside with here and 
there the shattered roof of an isolated farmhouse 
appearing. None of the no-less shattered villages 
nearer the front were visible, however, nor were the 
opposing lines of trenches — five miles distant. 

It was only half light, but the weather had cleared 
during the night, and, although the snow lay thick 
upon the fields, the wintry air was still, and I knew 
that I might reasonably expect in a very short time 
to make my initial flight under real war conditions. 
With eagerness to be up and doing, I dressed and 
went downstairs, and in a few moments was at the 
front door, ready to accompany my new comrades to 
the aviation piste which lay just across the street. It 
was a huge, un fenced field which took three-quarters 
of an hour to circle in an automobile, and was bor- 
dered by big gray hangars, each of which held ten 
machines. 

We breakfasted on chocolate and toast at the can- 



Luneville 143 



teen, and then I reported myself ready for duty to 
Captain Azire. He called for and introduced Fran- 
gois, my mechanic — a short and slender little fel- 
low — and then assigned my new machine to me — 
a Nieuport. It was a beauty, wonderfully camou- 
flaged on the top of its upper planes and fuselage 
with blotches of green and reddish brown so that, 
when looked at from above, it would blend into the 
earth beneath. The art of camouflaging airplanes 
has kept pace with that of disguising almost every- 
thing else used in warfare. It is, however, useless 
to attempt to do much to their under sides, for, 
against almost any kind of sky, they are visible be- 
cause of the shadow; but I have seen enemy planes 
so cleverly " doctored " with varying colored paint, 
that, from a thousand meters above, they would 
pass completely unnoticed, unless the eye chanced to 
catch the black iron crosses which are painted near 
the center of the Boche's wings. As you know, the 
French ** coquard," or design, is concentric circles 
of blue, white and red ; and the American, a star in a 
circle. 



144 ^^' ^^^ 'Em! 



My new chasse plane was obviously the best I had 
ever had, and, as keen to try its flying qualities as 
any boy to mount a new bicycle, I donned my winter 
flying clothes and climbed aboard. She took the 
air as easily and lightly as a bird, after a '* taxi " 
trip of not more than forty feet over the crusty 
snow, and, as we soared upward in wide circles, I 
found, to my great delight, that she was not only 
swift, but so responsive to the controls that I could 
almost " breathe " her around. 

Oh, the indescribable joy of flying a perfect plane! 

I glanced down, saw that the captain was watch- 
ing me and, just like that boy on his new cycle, began 
to show off, with all the acrobatic stunts which I 
had recently learned at Pau.. Yes, I was frankly 
trying to make an impression, and, although I prob- 
ably failed to thrill him with my exhibition, I at 
least earned a *"" Bien fait, Wellman," when I finally 
descended. From a veteran flyer that means more 
than any lavish encomiums from a layman, and I 
felt a glow of satisfaction. After all, what more 
need ever be said than, " Well done " ? 



Luneville 145 



'' This afternoon you will take yonr first trip over 
the lines with our ' ace,' ' Ruamps,' " added the cap- 
tain. " Ace," by the way, is spelt " As " in French, 
and pronounced '* ass." 

I saluted, well pleased, for I was already in love 
with my little machine, and replied, '' Merci, mon 
Capitaine, Je suis pret." 

I had already determined upon a name for the first 
plane that should be really mine, to all intents and 
purposes, the '* CELIA "' — my mother's name — 
and when I announced it, my mechanic had it 
painted in big black letters on the top of the fuse- 
lage, over the Black Cat, which was the emblem of 
our Eseadrille, and which adorned the side. He 
also added the numeral " I " which proved to be 
prophetic. I was to see four others bear that name 
with other numerals. 

The evening before I had met M. Ruamps, and 
had heard that he was a devil in the air, with five 
Boche planes to his credit already, downed during 
six months of flying at the front; but one would 
never have guessed his record from his appearance, 



146 Go, Get 'Em! 

for he was a little chap with a smooth, round face 
almost like a Kewpie's. He was only eighteen years 
old. 

Poor lad, I was to see him killed by my side within 
two months. 

I passed the two hours before dinner-time on the 
field, and in the hangars, talking with mechanics, 
some of the pilots, watching others in the air, and, 
in general, trying to become mentally acclimated. 
Nevertheless, when the dinner hour arrived, I dis- 
covered suddenly that I had lost all appetite, although 
I had believed myself to be ravenously hungry. 
The anticipation of the coming flight over the battle 
front had stolen it quite away. 

Trying to conceal my nervousness with an air of 
nonchalance, I nibbled at my food, but I feasted full 
upon the conversation, which turned on air flights, 
methods of attack and the dangers (?) from anti- 
aircraft guns. 

Indeed " fighting " and femmes furnished the 
principal subjects of conversation morning, noon 
and night. 



Luneville 147 



At two o'clock I accompanied Ruamps to the field, 
got into my togs, and then listened respectfully while 
he gave me my instructions, saying, '' All that you 
have got to do is to follow me at fifty meters while 
I fly in figures 8 over the front line trenches. 
There'll be no fighting to-day. I mean to keep 
away from any scraps, for I merely want you to get 
accustomed to the lay of the land. Get the princi- 
pal landmarks fixed in your mind.'* 

I climbed into my plane, Frangois started the pro- 
peller, and we were off. Ruamps' directions had 
sounded simple enough, for it was to be merely the 
old Vol de groupe; but I quickly discovered that it 
was not so easy to adapt my high speed to his, and 
follow him at the prescribed distance. In fact it 
was so difficult that it took all my concentrated atten- 
tion, and, when I followed him down to the field 
later, I knew no more about the territory over which 
I had flown and was going to fly, than I had when 
I went up an hour and a half before. My chagrin 
was somewhat diminished, however, when, in reply 
to my confession, he smiled and said, *' Oh, that was 



148 Go, Get 'Em! 

to be expected. You have prospects, and will no 
doubt made a good pilot in a short time." 

Before we reached our chateau, it had begun to 
snow again, and, as this ended the flying, the others 
came drifting in shortly. By supper time there was 
an old-fashioned blizzard raging outside, but within 
the dining-room all was cozy, and Mirth was King. 
Indeed, I could not help thinking that the supper 
was more hke an oldtime bachelor dinner than a 
wartime meal, for, although the food was simple, 
there was wine and song a-plenty. 



CHAPTER X 



FLYING FOR FRANCE 



Five days of bad weather followed, and, with 
flying out of the question, we spent the time in rest 
and recreation. The others evidenced no regrets; 
but, like all beginners, I was restive under the en- 
forced vacation. Part of this period of idleness I 
spent in getting acquainted with many men of many 
classes in and about our camp. Among them was 
our chef, Jean, a grizzly old Frenchman with a sad, 
weather-scarred face. One day he told me his story, 
and as I heard it I did not wonder that his yellow 
teeth were bared while he spoke. 

His home had been in an Alsatian village where, 
before the war, he had lived the life of a peaceful 
farmer, with an old mother, his wife, two grown-up 
sons, a daughter of eighteen and one of eight. 
When the conflict began, he and his two boys had 

149 



150 Go, Get 'Em! 

been summoned to the Colors, and had joined dif- 
ferent regiments, leaving the women folks at home. 
Almost immediately the Hunnish hordes had swept 
over the little village, and they still were holding it. 
For months, filled with weary waiting and despair, 
he had heard nothing from home. Then came a let- 
ter from his wife, smuggled out. 

They were all alive, but they had better have been 
dead, he said ; for they, in company with every other 
woman and girl in the village, from six years up to 
old age, had been horribly maltreated by the Boche 
and affected with loathsome disease. 

When I left Jean I was praying for clear weather 
and a chance to do some litdc bit toward avenging 
him and the thousands and thousands of others 
whose case was like his in France. 

Oh, yes, we loved the Germans ! We even named 
places after them. For instance, near Jean's do- 
main was the " chateau of the Crown Prince and 
Princess.'^ It was our piggery. 

During this time of waiting I received word from 
home that my only brother, Arch, had enlisted in the 



Flying for France 151 

United States Aviation service. I had commenced 
by urging him to do it, then shifted, and pleaded 
with him not to, as I learned more about the hard- 
ships of training — in France, at least — and in my 
letter, written upon receipt of the news, I handed out 
some brotherly advice which must have seemed 
strange to him, for he was always the deliberate, 
careful and efficient kind, and I the harum-scarum, 
wild one. Yet it was, and is, good advice, and I am 
tempted to quote from my letter for the benefit of 
any reader who may some day take up flying. 

" The training period is certainly the most danger- 
ous, and, when you start it, go easy and take care 
of yourself. The big question is as to the strength 
of the machines; they get such hard usage in the 
schools that they are liable to be weak. Keep your 
eyes open all the time, and remember that you are 
not a ' flyer ' until you are actually ready for the 
front. I went through school fast ; but my accidents 
were all the result of thinking that I was a flyer at 
the start. They taught me a lesson. 

" Just plod along and let the other fellows win the 
name of dare-devils. Don't try any ' funny stunts ' 
to earn a reputation for yourself — there are plenty 
of darned fools to do that. Just be the same con- 
servative plugger that you have always been, and you 



152 Go, Get 'Em! 



will come through a-flying. I am actually sorry for 
the words that the captain at school wrote on my 
certificate, ' a born pilot, but crazy.' " 

Except for the ever-present totos — the French 
for " cootie "^ — * living conditions would have been 
almost ideal, and, compared with the doughboys in 
the trenches, or even in rest billets in the village, we 
lived like princes. To be sure we had to pay 
seventy francs every fortnight for our excellent 
dinners and suppers, and this was a heavy drain on 
my small income, although the rest, who were all 
sergeants or better, did not mind it. However, 
brother Arch proved himself a brick, and sent me a 
monthly gift which saved the day, and I frequently 
received bully packages of candy, cigarettes and 
newspapers from my guardian angel in Paris, Miss 
Wood. 

So the time passed pleasantly enough, for the as- 
sociation was more like that of a cosmopolitan club 
than any army, and the discipline was mild, almost 
superseded by close comradeship, in fact, for Cap- 
taine Azire and those under him in command mixed 



Flying for France 153 

with us frequently, although they lived in another 
chateau. 

On the eleventh, I was delighted by the arrival of 
Tom Hitchcock, and we immediately agreed to team 
up again, and made our plans always to fly together 
when possible. He was a whale of a pilot, and I 
instinctively felt that I could trust him in any emer- 
gency, which means everything to a fighting flyer. 
We looked forward to working together in perfect 
harmony and getting results. 

Finally came half fair weather, although a per- 
sistent mist made flying at the front dangerous, and 
we spent most of our time in the air, simply keeping 
our hand in, doing the acrobatics which had become 
commonplace enough as far as execution went, but 
still brought me the old feeling of sporting exhilara- 
tion. 

On the first really good day I had the pleasure of 
taking Tom on his maiden trip over the lines, as 
Ruamps had me, and thereafter we flew together 
as a part of the morning and afternoon patrols. 
From that time until the day before Christmas I flew; 



154 Go, Get 'Em! 

almost continually; but without incident, and saw 
few Boche planes, and these at a distance. Life 
settled into its new schedule and I was up and into 
my clothes, generally without shaving, before day- 
break, swallowed a hasty breakfast of chocolate and 
bread, with perhaps an egg or two, at the canteen in 
the hangars, where it could be purchased for a couple 
of francs, was onto the field and into the air with the 
first flush of dawn, and patrolled in a squadron of 
six or eight flyers, back and forth, back and forth, 
over the trenches for two hours. Then came a lay 
off until noon, which brought the very welcome din- 
ner of stew or steak, sardines, vegetables, bread, 
coffee and fruit. At three o'clock I was up again, 
and flew until darkness fell about five o'clock, when 
the day's w^ork was done and we had the evenings in 
which to amuse ourselves with *' smokes," cards, 
and music. 

I early found the men of my Escadrille a splendid 
group of chaps and sterling fighters ; but, as is almost 
inevitably the case, there was one exception. He 
was not French, T am glad to say, but the Russian, 



Flying for France 155 



and he was transferred, not long after I arrived. 
Not, however, until he had shown his colors, and one 
of the others and I had gained the satisfaction of 
punishing him a-little. 

It was generally reported that he had a habit of 
going up in a patrol, but soon breaking away and 
flying to the rear, to return after the customary 
period, and tell of the fights in which he had been 
engaged. One morning another pilot and I deter- 
mined to block his little game, and secretly planned 
out a campaign to follow. We all went into the air 
together and headed for the front. Soon the patrol 
broke up somewhat, as the planes sought different 
altitudes, and I saw the Russian turn and head west- 
ward. So did my fellow conspirator, who had also 
been keeping an eye on him, and, according to pre- 
arrangement, I made sail for a position behind him 
on his left and my colleague to one behind and on 
his right. Then we headed in on him, gradually 
forcing him back toward the lines. Whenever he 
would turn to the left I speeded straight at him and 
sent a stream of shots across his bows, and the same 



156 Go, Get 'Em! 



thing occurred when he turned the other way, in an 
attempt to elude us. My companion was on the job. 
Together we shepherded him up and down the Hne 
for two hours. Thereafter there was no love lost 
between us. 

It was also during this time that I had an amus- 
ing, yet humiliating experience on earth. There 
was a strict rule that it was defendu for any one, 
except pilots and mechanics, to go out onto our 
aviation field during flying periods, for the pres- 
ence of people there increased the dangers of land- 
ing. One afternoon one of our pilots had " piled 
up " his plane upon descending, and, as I came out 
of a hangar, I saw a man in the long trench coat of 
the infantry standing out on the piste, examining it. 

Without a thought, I ran toward him, shouting, 
** What the blue blazes do you mean by coming out 
here? Clear out, quick" — or something to that 
effect, only a bit stronger, perhaps. Not until I 
was almost tip to the intruder did I realize, with a 
wave of discomfiture, that he was a French Gen- 
eral. Fortunately he knew that he was in the 



Flying for France 157 

wrong, and also could see a joke, for he laughed, 
and invited me to join him at the canteen, where we 
pledged each other's health. 

The days passed with little to break the mo- 
notony, few enemy planes in sight and no serious 
fighting below in the trenches, although the French- 
men holding them were daily and nightly getting 
sniped at, or mildly shelled, by the Hun. 

Then, on the twenty-fourth, I got my first taste 
of what my later diet was to be. 

The air was clear, but bitterly cold that afternoon. 
This, however, did not prevent us from going up 
as usual, for, if we did not, the Boche certainly 
would have. He was not, and is not any molly- 
coddle. I went up in the usual patrol and started 
a weaving flight back and forth over our three- 
mile beat at fifty-five hundred meters. My, but it 
was bitter up there, and, after I had been at it for 
an hour and a half, I began to be so numb, despite 
my heavy apparel, that I concluded that safety first 
required my return to earth while I was still able 
to control my machine. I accordingly left the pa- 



158 Go, Get 'Em! 



trol, which was occupied in doing nothing, and 
started downward. 

When I had reached an altitude of three thou- 
sand meters on my downward path I caught sight 
of a remarkably camouflaged two-place machine, 
just below me, over our third line trenches, and 
headed for Germany. For an instant I thought 
that it was a French plane, starting out for observa- 
tion work, perhaps; but the next my eyes caught 
sight of the two black crosses which proclaimed its 
true nationality, and I knew that it was an Aviatik 
— one type of Boche plane used for photograph- 
ing. For some reason or other it had not been 
observed from the ground, as was apparent from 
the complete silence of our anti-aircraft guns. 

Mine was the only French machine anywhere 
near it, and it was the first enemy plane that I had 
ever seen so close, or when I was alone. On the 
moment I forgot all about feeling cold, and, with 
every nerve a-tingle and my blood surging fast, I 
swept down into an attack, without pausing for con- 
sideration. 



Flying for France 159 

I had had the proper manner of attacking a bi- 
place machine drummed into me over and over, as 
I have described it. I knev^, in theory, that di- 
rectly behind the pilot sat a second man with a 
swiveled gun who could fire in any direction except 
downward, and that, of course, the only safe method 
of attacking it, was to dive behind it at such a 
speed that that gunner could not make an easy 
mark of me, do a " Russian Mountain," and come 
up at the " blind spot " from beneath. I knew this 
perfectly, but my wild excitement made me forget 
all that I had learned. There he was, right be- 
low, and it was up to me to see to it that he did not 
get home from his little picture-taking trip. 

With only that thought in my mind, I dove 
straight at him, thereby giving the gunner a fair 
target for his stream of bullets. 

By every rule of the game I should have been 
shot down instantly; but the luck, of which I have 
written before, was with me in full measure, for 
the gunner was an atrocious shot and " never 
touched me," although he had every chance in the 



l6o Go, Get 'Em! 

world. Nor was I any better. I fired six times, 
in my excitement failing to register a single hit; 
then my gun jammed, which was perhaps a good 
thing, for it brought me to a realization of my 
foolishness and predicament. I had just sense 
enough to go into a vriLle as I sped past him. 

The pilot of the Aviatik turned his machine, and 
dove after me, shooting continuously, and so doing 
he followed me down for full two thousand meters. 
Then, apparently satisfied that I was out of con- 
trol and that he had ended my brief career, or fear- 
ing to follow farther directly over our trenches, 
he straightened his plane out and scooted for home, 
unharmed. 

My heart was in my mouth when I thought of 
what I had escaped by bull luck, and, as soon as 
I had seen him abandon the chase, I, in turn, righted 
my machine and went for home just as fast as it 
would carry me. Never had I been half so glad 
to see my own aviation field below. In fact, I was 
so overwhelmingly happy, when I went into my 
final volplane toward terra firma, that I clean forgot 



Flying for France i6l 

another cardinal rule of flying, and, as I had on the 
occasion of my first time in the air, failed to pull 
my control stick back and so bring the machine 
parallel to the ground at the moment of landing, 
with the entirely natural result that I plunged into 
it nose first. 

Six thousand dollars' worth of delicate mechan- 
ism was smashed to splinters, and I did not care a 
rap. I was too filled with sheer joy to be safe on 
earth again for that, in spite of the fact that my 
first fight and first big aerial experience had ended 
in ignominious failure. 



CHAPTER XI 

A "merry CHRISTMAS," AND MY FIRST BOCHE 

Christmas morning dawned very cold, but as 
clear as a bell, and, with the snow sparkling on the 
ground and roofs of the houses, Luneville looked 
for all the world like a picture-book illustration of 
a quaintly foreign scene. But the calm beauty of 
it, instead of delighting me, made me feel intensely 
blue and dejected. Although I was a mighty long 
way from home, and the scene appeared utterly 
difYerent from any that I had ever viewed in New 
England, I could not help recalling other Christ- 
mases when I was in the midst of my family and 
friends, laughter, gifts, holly — and mistletoe. A 
few gifts had come, to be sure, and it was not the 
fault of my dear ones that the major portion came 
three months late, but the spirit of Yuletide was 
utterly lacking. I went downstairs and joined my 

162 



A "Merry Christmas" 163 



comrades. There were no "Merry Christmas" 
greetings, and I was only too glad to get out of 
doors, through the simple breakfast, and to work. 

There was to be no recreation for us, as Cap- 
tain Azire speedily made known. War knows no 
holy — or holidays, and the schedule for the morn- 
ing called us to act as escort for a huge Letord — 
a three-place machine used in taking photographs 
on a trip twenty-five miles into German terri- 
tory. 

Our destination was the town of Saarburg, or 
rather a spot far up in the air over that town, for 
troops had been reported coming up to the front 
from it, and it was thought desirable to obtain some 
photographic information concerning the lay of 
the land, and what was going on. 

The trip was not to take place until two o'clock, 
so we had several hours on our hands. There was 
no churchgoing that morning, however. Instead, 
the majority of us put in the time at the card 
table. 

At one o'clock came our CTiristmas dinner, not 



l64 Go, Get 'Em! 

of goose or turkey with the " fixin's " ; but steak 
and potatoes. Soon after it I arrayed myself for 
the afternoon's work. My costume consisted of 
three suits of underwear, three pairs of woolen 
socks and a heavy winter uniform. When I got 
out to the hangars this was supplemented by my fur- 
lined flying combination and helmet, fur-lined boots, 
a sweater, and a muffler wrapped about my neck, 
ears and forehead. You can imagine what a styl- 
ish figure I cut. Santa Claus was never arrayed 
like unto me, and it took two of the mechanics to 
lift me bodily into my machine and strap me in 
place. 

But this was not all of my paraphernalia. My 
combination suit boasted six pockets, and in each 
of them I put a modern contrivance, made in China, 
which served the purpose of the old-fashioned 
warming-pan. It was a small box, covered on the 
outside with velvet, and containing a slab of char- 
coal which was ignited at the last moment by a 
fuse at one end, and was planned to glow for some 
time. 




MY WINTER COSTUME 



A " Merry Christmas " 165 

The six escorting Nieuports were lined up, and 
followed the unwieldy Let or d as it " taxied " across 
the snowy field and soared into the crisp air. 

Like a flock of Winter birds we circled over 
Luneville until we had reached an altitude of three 
thousand meters, and then, arranging ourselves 
above, below, and on either side of the big three- 
man plane, we started eastward, crossed the front 
line trenches at four thousand yards up in the 
biting air, and struck into Germany, warmly wel- 
comed as we sped over the Boche trenches by the 
" Archies " or enemy anti-aircraft guns. These are 
the objects of much ridicule among airmen, for they 
next to never register a hit, which is perhaps 
scarcely strange considering the speed and height 
of their mark; but they are useful in keeping a 
hostile plane at a respectable distance up. 

The explosion of the shrapnel shells around and 
below me sounded like a dull grunt emitted by a 
monstrous pig — a sort of a " wruf ff," and once 
/ actually saw one pass in front of my plane — a 
small streak of black lightning, if I can use the 



l66 Go, Get 'Em! 



expression — to burst in black smoke well above. 
The Boche below were very generous, and the air 
was filled with compliments of the season from 
the Kaiser. None of his gifts reached us, but 
it was scarcely pleasant to have them bursting so 
near, and I am quite sure that none of us wished 
him a " Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year," 
that day. 

The flight to Saarburg, and the business of shoot- 
ing it up with the camera while we circled over- 
head at five thousand meters, took nearly an hour, 
and there was nothing pleasant in the experience. 
If any of you have ever been for any length of 
time on the top of a three-mile-high mountain in 
mid winter, you can guess something of what I 
mean, then add to that the necessity of keeping 
continually in flight, and maintaining a lookout for 
possible enemies bent upon your destruction. 

At length the Letord turned, and headed for 
home, its work completed, and I, for one, was not 
at all loath to do likewise, especially as the weather 
had already begun to change rapidly for the worse. 



A " Merry Christmas " 167 

A nasty cross wind came in sharp gusts that kept 
me busy with my control stick to counteract them 
and, as we flew France ward, the sky kept growing 
momentarily blacker and blacker, while dark, omi- 
nous-looking clouds rolled up on the horizon. I 
was both worried and miserable, for, despite my 
many thicknesses of raiment, I was getting un- 
comfortably cold, and I had a strong suspicion that 
my nose was frozen. 

There is a cheerful saying that there is nothing 
so bad that it cannot be worse, and last Christmas 
afternoon proved the truth of it to me. Before 
we had gone half way on the back trail, snow began 
to fall. The snow, hail and wind increased until 
it became half a blizzard. The icy particles paid 
no attention whatever to my glass windshield, but 
leaped it and bit into my numbed face like innumer- 
able needles. One by one my companions disap- 
peared from view, and I was left alone over Ger- 
many in the air which was so thick with flying 
flakes that I could not see the front of my plane, 
and only the faintest possible outline of the Vosges 



l68 Go, Get 'Em! 



Mountains far to my left told me that I was still 
headed in the right direction. 

Flying a tiny Nieuport under such conditions is 
no joke. Being in a small boat in a blizzard is a 
cinch compared with it, for no matter how the 
waves buffet your craft about they also sustain it, 
whereas in an airplane the pilot has continually to 
be on the jump to counteract a slap by an air wave 
with his side controls, and if the motor, whose 
power sustains him, goes wrong — good-night ! 

In the hope that the going might improve if I 
sought a lower altitude, and, basing my act on the 
thought that it could not be much worse, I piqued 
down to five hundred meters. It was worse, the 
air was more broken up and gusty, and the flying 
correspondingly more difficult. 

After what may have been ten minutes of this 
sort of thing, I made out the formation of the 
forest of Parroy — which runs some three miles 
into French territory and three-quarters of a mile 
into German, crossing the tw^o front lines — be- 
neath me, in spite of its natural camouflage. When 



A " Merry Christmas " 169 

we had left it had been black; now it was almost 
as white as the ground about it. This gave me the 
direction of our field, and, after a few minutes 
more of Dante's seventh circle in Hades, I arrived 
over our piece d'aviation. Not, however, until to 
my other worries had been added that of engine 
trouble. It sounded desperately uncertain whether 
or not it could hold out, and I kept up a steady 
flow of words addressed to it, coaxing and encour- 
aging as one might a faithful old horse who was 
dog-tired and seemed on the point of lying down 
by the roadside. To be sure, / could not hear my 
words above the roar of the motor, but they — or 
something — had the desired effect. Out of the 
enveloping gray blanket below appeared a flare 
which I did not understand, but it attracted me as 
a beacon light attracts seagulls in a storm. It was, 
in fact, gasoline spread on the snow, and lighted 
to direct the course of the returning voyagers. 

At length I landed. Mine was not an orthodox 
landing, however. Far from it! The wind had 
now attained so high a velocity that I did not dare 



1 70 Go, Get 'Em! 



to shut off my motor until the slender wheels of my 
plane were within a foot of the deeply snow-covered 
ground. One wheel struck first, sunk into the snow, 
and my machine went over and over in three com- 
plete somersaults. 

That was the end of the CELIA II, and when it 
stopped, smashed to smithereens, and with the back 
end of the fuselage bent around until it almost 
touched the front, it was with a start of surprise 
that I realized I was still alive. Undoing my body 
belt, I slowly crawled out of the wreckage. Others 
were there to assist me ; but, to their astonishment, 
I shook off their helping hands, and, in utter dis- 
gust, waddled home. 

I had been right about my nose. It was frozen, 
and for more than a week it looked like old John 
Bunny's. 

And this was the end of a perfect Christmas 
Day! 

A new uniform which was made possible by 
presents from home, and which I ordered the next 



A ''Merry Christmas" 171 

day, partly recompensed me for my unlovely ap- 
pearance during the days that followed until my 
nose returned to normal. 

For nearly three weeks nothing of moment oc- 
curred, either on the ground or in the air. We 
performed our patrol duty twice daily, except when 
the weather was impossible, and had occasional 
brushes with the Boche, but nothing more. 

Then came the nineteenth of January, and the 
first BIG day on my flying calendar. 

You who read this can look back to something 
keenly anticipated and finally achieved, and remem- 
ber the thrill of supreme delight that followed the 
achievement; but I tell you that, unless you have 
downed an enemy's machine in a fair fight in mid- 
air, you don't know what delirious joy really is. 

I have taken part in many kinds of sport, but 
not one of the others can for an instant compare 
with flying as a sensation producer, and, when to 
that is added the mad exultation of a contest that 
transcends all others, and victory crowns it, well — 
the feeling simply can't be put in words. 



172 Go, Get 'Em! 

Oddly enough, my first successful fight grew out 
of another escort trip with the Lctord which, on 
Christmas Day, had led me into so much trouble. 
This time, however, the weather was excellent, al- 
though still beasdy cold. Again we went over the 
German lines, the big machine finished its ap- 
pointed task, and headed home, without encoun- 
tering trouble. It was well on its way toward 
France, surrounded by six or eight of us little fel- 
lows doing police duty around it, when, looking 
ahead, I saw a series of black and white puffs sud- 
denly appear out of nothing in the blue sky some 
three miles above Luneville. I knew them to be 
bursting anti-aircraft shells, and fired from friendly 
guns too, for the Allies use a mixture of black and 
white powder, and the Germans black only. An 
enemy's aircraft was somewhere " up there," and, 
although I could not spot it yet, I broke away from 
our group and turned my Nieuporfs nose upward 
from the four thousand meter altitude at which we 
were then flying, while the Lctord, and the rest of 
its escort dove for the landing — all, that is, except 



A "Merry Christmas" 173 

one which had a two- foot high " 7 " painted in red 
near the Cat of the fuselage, I knew the plane. 
It was flown by Miot, one of our daring French 
" aces." To call his attention to the presence of 
a Boche I gave the usual signal, moving my con- 
trol stick rapidly from side to side, and my little 
craft rocked merrily in its cradle of air. 

Miot answered in the same manner to tell me 
that he was " on," and, although it was no part 
of our prescribed duty, we headed straight for the 
scene as located by the still bursting shrapnel shells, 
he on the right and I on the left. 

Suddenly the gunfire ceased. Our friends on 
earth had seen us going into action. For a moment 
I looked in vain for the enemy, and then, a hun- 
dred meters below, and perhaps four times that 
distance ahead of me, I saw a cleverly disguised 
two-place Rumpler. Even a practiced e3^e might 
well have been deceived, so perfectly did it blend 
into the landscape. 

I knew that a Riimpler was another type used both 
for bombing and taking photographs, and decided 



174 ^^' ^^^ 'Em! 



that it had been playing the same game as our 
Letord. 

For an instant I took my eyes off the quarry to 
see what Miot was doing. To my equal astonish- 
ment and dismay he had already started to dive 
directly at the Boche — a most foolish thing to do, 
as I have already explained. The observer was 
making the most of his unexpected opportunity, 
and was banging away as fast as his mitrailleuse 
would fire. Over the racket of my engine I could 
hear its spiteful " clack, clack, clack," each of which 
spoke in the language of death. It was but a sec- 
ond more before a wave of horror swept over me, 
for I saw the top left-hand plane of Miot's machine 
crumple up. The lower plane followed, torn loose 
by the sudden strain, and down, down, down he 
went, in a spinning nose dive with only one wing 
intact and the other flapping piteously like that of 
a mortally wounded bird. 

There was not a chance in the world for poor 
Miot, for he was falling, wholly out of control, 
from a height of more than three miles. A sweep 



A '' Merry Christmas " 175 

of keen sorrow and a shudder went through me, 
followed instantly by a gripping desire to avenge 
him. 

Action in the air, with one's plane going one hun- 
dred and thirty-five miles an hour, occurs much 
faster than it can be recounted, and, even as I 
was witnessing the fate of my comrade, I was 
diving vertically behind the Boche. 

When my plunge had carried me past and a 
little way below him, I tightened the muscles of 
my stomach, clinched my jaws and made the sharp 
turn which I have described. Then I turned 
my plane's nose upward, gave her the juice, and 
opened fire when I was fifty yards distant. It was 
too far for dead certainty, and I was forced to 
go into a side wing-slip to prevent my plane from 
passing the Boche in its upward rush, without 
having the satisfaction of being sure that I had 
punctured it. At the same moment I saw an- 
other plane flash by me to attack in the manner 
in which I had. This time my eye caught sight 
of the number " 10 " beside the Black Cat. It was 



176 Go, Get 'Em! 

good old Tommy Hitchcock, come post-haste to my 
aid. 

As I recovered my equilibrium after falling side- 
ways a little distance, I kept my eyes fixed on the 
spectacle just above and in front of me, and my 
heart leaped as I saw Tom complete his *' Russian 
Mountain," go streaking upward and cut loose with 
his Vickers. It flashed once, and the Rumpler's 
propeller flew to pieces. 

I followed in his wake, and, steadied by Tom's 
presence, fired more deliberately, and had the ex- 
ultant satisfaction of realizing that this time I 
had scored a clean hit and silenced the enemy's 
motor. Even so, he was not out of the fight, for 
the pilot was skillful, and he had plenty of altitude 
from which to volplane down to safety behind his 
own lines, if we could not "get" him first. He 
was wounded, but his fangs were not drawn, and 
for a few lively moments both Tom and I went 
through every conceivable acrobatic stunt in order 
to keep out of range of his two guns, and save our 
own hides, without quitting the combat. On my 




TOMMY HITCHCOCK 



A " Merry Christmas " 177 

fourth attack came the long postponed victory. My 
gunfire killed the pilot instantly, and the Rumpler 
went spinning and twisting toward the earth like 
a piece of paper, to crash into No-Man's Land, a 
mass of tangled wood and wire. 

Both of us followed it down to within twenty 
yards of the ground, made a quick turn and sped 
for home at that altitude, pursued by a hell-hail of 
bullets from the Boche first line trenches, and hear- 
ing the return fire of the French poilus as we swept 
over the trenches. 

We reached the field together, the two most 
exultant youths in creation at that moment, and 
what a reception was in store for us! The fight 
had been seen from the Letord, its escort, and from 
the field, and, as we taxied to our hangars, the place 
was swarming with excited Frenchmen who lifted 
us from our seats and almost devoured us in their 
delight, for it was not only a clean-cut victory, but 
my first. Tom had previously scored his first 
" kill." 

During the excitement of an air fight you feel 



178 Go, Get 'Em! 



capable of enduring anything, and not until it is 
all over do you realize what a drain on the nervous 
and physical vitality it has been. We discovered 
that we were quite willing to be excused for the 
remainder of the day, and go to our rooms for 
a rest ; but in my case, at least, sleep would not come. 
My mind was torn between two conflicting thoughts, 
that of Miot's death and my own good fortune. 
It had been the " day of days " for me, for the 
" first " Boche can be placed to one's credit only 
once in a lifetime.^ 

1 For this achievement both Mr. Hitchcock and Mr. Well- 
man received the coveted " Croix de Guerre." The latter's 
citation reads as follows : 

"Le Corporal Wellman, William Augustus, No. Mle 
12274 du Ire regiment de La Legion Etrangere pilote a 
Escadrille N. 87. 

" Americain engage a La Legion Etrangere se distingue 
comme un pilote de chasse remarquable par son ardeur et son 
courage. Le 19 Janvier abattn un avion ennemi qui s'est 
ecrase au sol pres du Bois Maut de la Croix."— Editor. 



CHAPTER XII 



SEEING RED 



In air fighting, it has become almost axiomatic 
that battles come in bunches, and, as though to bear 
out the truth of this theory, Tom and I ran into 
one of our most sensational experiences on the 
afternoon of the very next day, January twentieth. 

The weather was clear and decidedly chilly, with 
a strong wind blowing from our lines into Germany, 
when we went up in a two-man patrol, as was now 
our custom. 

We headed for Nancy, a few miles to the north, 
and over that city started our aerial quarry, a two- 
place Boche plane which had apparently been mak- 
ing the most of the clear day to take some pictures, 
probably in preparation for sending a few more 
German remembrances, in the shape of bombs or 

179 



l8o Go, Get 'Em! 



shells, into that once lovely little city, now so deso- 
late. 

The pilot saw us coming when we were yet a 
long way off; but, instead of waiting to give us 
the welcome of a prodigal son, he straightway 
headed for home. Our planes were speedier than 
his, however, and we gave each other the attack- 
ing signal and set sail in pursuit — a pair of hawks 
after a fat hen. 

It was a real running fight from the start, and, 
before w^e had been engaged in it many minutes, 
we knew that we had met a foeman worthy of our 
combined steel. Time after time Tom, and then I, 
made the prescribed attack, and, as often, the Boche 
pilot foiled us with a wonderful display of acrobatics 
— renversements, wing slips, vrilles and loops • — 
and all the while both he and his gunner were losing 
no opportunity to make it hot for us whenever we 
got within their range. They were both veritable 
masters of the art of flying and fighting. 

All the time we were hustling into Germany, with 
our normal speed considerably augmented by the 



Seeing Red i8l 



strong westerly wind. I would dive, swoop up, 
fire and miss him, as he met my attack with a per- 
fect defense, side-stepping and countering in the 
air as a clever boxer does on the ground. It was 
a glorious contest, and I got so excited that it was 
not long before I found myself yelling at the top 
of my lungs. This may have supplied a vent for 
m}' overcharged emotions; but it was exceedingly 
foolish, since I could not hear myself, and it used up 
valuable energy. 

The Huns headed for their own aviation base 
at Mamy, some eighteen miles behind their lines, 
and Tom and I stayed right with them every inch 
of the way. Then, as the realization struck home 
that they were actually on the point of escaping us, 
something must have snapped in both of our brains. 
I know that I " saw red." At that moment there 
was nothing else in my universe except that Boche 
machine; nothing else mattered, if I could only get 
it. 

Its pilot planed down towards his field, turned 
and headed into the wind to make his landing, and 



l82 Go, Get 'Em! 



we followed close on his tail. The gunner was 
still firing at us incessantly, but the pilot jumped 
the instant his machine struck, and ran for one of 
the trenches which surrounded the place. Over 
the plane we flashed at an altitude of only twenty- 
five yards. At length we had it where it could not 
evade us further, and our two-fold stream of shot 
riddled it completely. The battle madness still 
held me in its grip, and, pointing my plaite still fur- 
ther earthward, I turned my gun on the trenches. 
The pilot dropped. Then, only eight yards above 
the ground, and with motors going at full speed, 
Tom and I flew across the field, shooting at every- 
thing in sight, and pouring our bullets into the 
open ends of the hangars. 

Our attack had been so swift, and so utterly unex- 
pected, that the Germans were paralyzed by it, for, 
for an instant they stood and stared, probably open 
mouthed; but, when we pulled up and headed east- 
ward, the fireworks commenced. In a moment 
shells were bursting and bullets buzzing all around 
me — hornets whose sting spelled death. Now 



Seeing Red 1 83 

and again my little plane would wince, and I knew 
that it had been hit. Finally one of the shells ex- 
ploded with a flash of fire and smoke just in front 
of my machine, so near to it that the resulting 
vacuum pulled me instantly into a spinning nose 
dive. I shut off the motor, and got out of it almost 
as quickly as I had gone in, having fallen only fifty 
meters before I was on even keel and away again. 
Behind, the rifles and trench mitrailleuses were blaz- 
ing away with a vengeance, and, as I climbed to 
fifteen hundred meters, the cannonade swelled to 
the most frightful that I had ever heard. 

The wind was now dead in our faces and blow- 
ing so briskly that our going was comparatively 
slow. It seemed to me that the ten minutes which 
it took to reach home were the longest I had ever 
gone through, for, as my hot blood cooled a little, 
I began to realize that we had been playing with 
death. 

Of course no one of our friends had seen the 
finish of our fight; but, even at the field, they had 
heard the fierceness of the firing, and the manner 



l84 Go, Get 'Em! 



of our return also told them that something out 
of the ordinary had been happening. There was 
a considerable number, including Captain Azire, 
waiting to greet us, and they helped me out of my 
harness and seat. When I got my legs on terra 
firma they were shaking so from nervous excite- 
ment that I could barely stand, and had to lean 
against the fuselage of my machine for support. 
The captain excitedly demanded that I tell him what 
had been going on ; but, although my mouth opened 
and shut, I could not utter a word, and in disgust 
he turned away and went to interrogate Tom. He 
was in no better shape than I, having also yelled 
his head off during the combat; but, after a while, 
we managed between us to give a patchwork story 
of our scrap, and Captain Azire told us that we 
had been very foolish — which we ourselves knew ; 
that what we had done had been entirely unneces- 
sary, and that he was tickled to death. 

With some curiosity I examined my plane. 
There were no less than eighteen holes of varying 
sizes in the wings and fuselage, and one piece of 



Seeing Red 185 



shrapnel had lodged in the seat. The CELIA III 
was sent to the rear for material repairs, and I 
was promised a new one on the morrow. 

It is difficult to believe history's stories of chiv- 
alry in warfare after participating in the present 
struggle. The Boche has substituted for it bar- 
barism in its most fiendish form ; but, although the 
forces of liberty have been obliged regretfully to 
fight fire with fire, there is at least a semblance 
of sportsmanship left in their methods. It is found 
especially among the airmen, for, after all, the ele- 
ments of a game still persist when the conflict 
is between two adversaries fighting in the open, 
while it is utterly lacking where armies number- 
ing hundreds of thousands are hidden in the 
ground. 

Certain unwritten rules still apply among the 
Allied air forces, and it is not considered good 
sportsmanship to kill a defenseless opponent, unless 
it is incidental to putting his plane out of commis- 
sion. In the case of the attack which Tommy and 
I made on the hangars, we were under fire all the 



l86 Go, Get 'Em! 



time, and it was a battle, as well as a mad exploit ; 
but I shall a little later give you a personal example 
of what I mean. 

Now, it is only fair to admit that in general the 
Boche plays the game by the same rules. Their 
airmen represent the best of a bad lot, but, even 
among them, the Hunnish manner of waging war 
crops out at times. 

One of these occasions occurred in our own sec- 
tor at about this time, and it still further fanned 
the flame of our deadly hatred for the enemy. 

One afternoon I was standing with others on 
our piste, when, in the air at a considerable distance, 
we saw five Boche machines suddenly appear and 
attack a lone French flyer. They were on him like 
a pack of blood-thirsty wolves, and after a moment 
the victim fell headlong, out of control, to be fol- 
lowed to earth by all five of the enemy. 

We made haste to get into automobiles and speed 
to the spot where the ghastly tragedy had occurred. 
The Huns had disappeared, after making their kill ; 
but there, on the frozen ground, lay the twisted 



Seeing Red 187 



wreck of the little Nieuport, and fully twenty yards 
distant the body of the unfortunate pilot. 

*' C'est la guerre? " Yes, as far as the fight in 
the air was concerned ; but it was apparent that the 
doomed aviator had been thrown out of his machine 
while still some distance in the air, and his body 
had been completely riddled with bullets which 
could only have been poured into it after it struck 
the earth. 

You can imagine the black rage that filled us at 
this sight, so indicative of the most inexcusable 
vindictive brutality. 

From the twentieth of January until the tenth of 
February nothing of especial interest happened in 
my flying career, although I went up on patrol duty 
whenever the weather permitted. At last, weary- 
ing of this stereotyped work, I asked Captain Azire 
on the latter date for permission to pay a call on 
the enemy's aviation field located at Hatignay, some 
ten or a dozen miles behind the lines. The per- 
mission was granted. 

The day was a peculiar one. A field of dense 



l88 Go, Get 'Em! 



clouds, only fifty meters thick, was hanging low 
over the landscape not more than eight hundred 
meters in the air. It was, in fact, just the sort of 
an afternoon for a pleasant game of hide and seek 
in the heavens. 

I streaked upward from our piste and plunged 
into them from below like a diver in Looking Glass 
Land, feeling my plane tremble all over as I did 
so. In a few seconds I had emerged on the other 
side into the clear air and radiant sunshine. Be- 
low me was the field cloud, fleecy white and shim- 
mering like soft wool on the back of a gigantic 
lamb. Here and there in it appeared irregular 
openings through which the earth beneath appeared 
to view for an instant, only to be hidden instantly 
by the concealing mantle. 

But, if I could see earthward through these holes,, 
the enemy below could likewise look up and catch 
glimpses of me as I passed. I glanced backward 
now and then to see the cloudbed broken up and 
the black pufTs of anti-aircraft shells bursting fully 
two miles back of me. They were doing their best 



Seeing Red 189 



to locate me; but their best was a long way short 
of accomplishing their purpose. 

Tracing out my route by the aid of my map, and 
the patches of country glimpsed momentarily 
through the openings, I finally arrived over Hatig- 
nay, and there found my hopes realized. 

The clouds formed the shore of a small atmos- 
pheric lake, at the bottom of which I could see a 
dozen miniature machines ranged in perfect order 
before their hangars, nine hundred meters below 
me. Over the edge I dove, shooting down for 
half the distance, then straightened out as a swim- 
mer does under water, and slid down to some two 
hundred meters above the field. My descent was 
so unexpected and speedy that the Boche had no 
time to train their weapons on me, and it was amus- 
ing to see them scurrying to their trenches like rab- 
bits for their holes. 

At this altitude I flew over the field, raking the 
trenches, then turned and treated the hangars and 
the planes before them to a dose of the same medi- 
cine, and escaped scot free. 



190 Go, Get 'Em! 



There was, of course, no way of my knowing 
how much damage I did, for I was traveHng so 
fast; but it is safe to say that it was considerable. 



CHAPTER XIII 

HIGH NOTES, AND A HELLISH CHORUS 

On the morning of February eleventh, Tom and 
I were standing on our aviation field, waiting for 
the patrol to be ordered up, when Captain Azire 
summoned us to him, and said, '* You two are the 
only Americans in this sector and, as such, are to 
be given a special task to perform to-day — one 
which will, I think, interest you." 

We looked at one another and I saw on Tom's 
face an expression which seemed to say, ** Well, 
what now? " 

The captain continued. " Your President has 
sent a message to Congress, which is really a note 
addressed to the German people, and to-day Ameri- 
cans from the different Escadrilles along the front 
are to have the unique privilege of flying over the 

igi 



192 Go, Get 'Eml 



enemy's country and dropping copies of it, printed 
in German. There are also some in French, which 
you will drop on our captured cities, behind the 
Boche lines." 

It promised to be a new and rather interesting 
game, we saluted with alacrity, and asked, " When 
do we start? " 

*' As soon as you are ready," was the reply, and 
we echoed Admiral Sims' historic words by say- 
ing, '' We are ready now!' 

Captain Azire bade us accompany him to the 
Pilotage, or office, where our curious gaze fell upon 
several big piles of pamphlets, some — as he had 
said — in French ; but the great majority in Ger- 
man. For an hour we were kept busy in the role 
of bundle boys, rolling them up into small parcels 
and tying them lightly with thin twine. 

Then, with two bundles each, of the ones ad- 
dressed to the French in bondage, we inaugurated 
the first American aerial post, flying in different 
directions, as special messengers of President Wil- 
son. 



High Notes 193 



My delivery route took me twenty-five miles into 
German territory over the towns of Saarburg and 
Mittersheim. 

The day was ideal for flying, clear and almost 
windless; we could keep well out of range of the 
spiteful '' Archies." Their bark is worse than their 
bite; but there was no use seeking trouble. 

It was great sport. When it came to delivering 
the mail, however, I found out very shortly that 
it was quite a little trick to get my notes off suc- 
cessfully and intact. Simply tossed overboard when 
I was going a hundred and thirty miles and hour, 
they developed a habit of getting mixed up with my 
wings, or caught in the fuselage; but I finally found 
a solution to the problem. It was by doing a verti- 
cal virage, tossing the bundles over when I was fly- 
ing perpendicularly, and at the same instant kicking 
my machine around violently so that its tail would 
not strike them, for my plane would have passed 
before they had dropped a foot. 

Frequently the strings with which they were tied 
would break, or slip off, in mid air, and the pam- 



194 ^^' ^^^ '^^' 



phlets would go fluttering down like feathers 
dropped from the wings of an immense bird. 

As it was late when we got back, and the weather 
had rapidly changed for the worse, and become 
unfavorable for flying, we postponed our bombard- 
ment of the German lines until the morrow, when 
we started off early with seven large bundles each. 
Perhaps we may be forgiven for our " Use ma- 
jeste " in hoping that the Boche would all be 
" gassed " to death by our missives. 

Although we went up to work early, it was a 
" bad " day, very gray, with heavy, low-hanging 
clouds scarcely two hundred yards above the ground 
and the wind was treacherous. Still, we had to 
fly low any way, in order to make certain that the 
pamphlets reached their objective points in the first 
line trenches, so we " went to it." This time the 
trip, unlike that of the prior day, was replete with 
excitement from start to finish. A French plane 
cannot fly boldly only a hundred yards above a 
Boche first line trench without " starting something.'' 
From the moment that we swung into line above 



High Notes 195 



the Huns they began banging merrily away at us 
with their rifles and machine guns in the trenches. 
Even above the roar of my engine I could hear the 
crackle of running fire beneath me, punctuated with 
the whang of the trench mitrailleuses, and the occa- 
sional droning whine of a bullet as it passed so near 
that its hymn of hate was audible above all that mad 
racket. It seems incredible to me, now, that we 
could both have flown at that low altitude for sev- 
eral miles through an inverted hailstorm of bullets 
and shrapnel, doing acrobatic stunts meanwhile, and 
escape scot free, but we did it. Our machines must 
have been simply covered with invisible horseshoes. 

It was amusing to look back and see the men be- 
low and behind us dropping their rifles and scram- 
bling for such of our messages as fell square in the 
trench. 

Tom finished his task a few minutes before I 
did mine, and, with a wave of triumph, headed for 
home, expecting me to follow. I hurried to dump 
overboard the balance of my freight; but, just as 
I was on the point of dropping the last bundle, I 



196 Go, Get 'Em! 



became possessed of an insane desire to " show off " 
— it was that, and nothing else. So, instead of 
performing my customary virage, I sped upward un- 
til the nose of my plane reached the low clouds, 
turned, dove vertically, and, when altogether too 
near the earth for safety, did a renversement and 
shot up again in a loop. I had just reached the 
top of my aerial turn, was flying head downward, 
and on the point of cutting off my motor, when 
it suddenly quit of its ow^n accord. The magneto 
had broken. If I had been a thousand meters up 
instead of a hundred, the accident would not have 
w^orried me excessively. As it was, I realized that 
my foolishness had put me into as tight a hole as 
ever I had been in my life. There was no time to 
spend in moralizing. I had to act, and act in- 
stantly, for being upside down in an airplane with- 
out motive power, only a hundred yards above the 
ground and directly over a trench full of busy 
Boche, is not a thing of pleasure and a joy for- 
ever. 

I did the only possible thing, a side wing slip, 



High Notes 197 



and came to an even keel not sixty yards from earth. 
Bullets were now buzzing busily around me, and for 
an instant I had not the faintest idea of the direc- 
tion in which my plane was heading, I had per- 
formed my combination stunt so hurriedly. My 
motor was dead; but, as I coasted downward, I 
heard the firing behind me and knew that I was 
still lucky, and going westward. If I had not been, 
I should probably have '' Gone West '' in another, 
and more sinister sense, that morning. 

My low volplane carried me safely over No- 
Man's Land, although all the time I was instinc- 
tively urging my plane forward with my body and 
wondering if I would make it, or again pay a visit 
to barbed wire entanglements. In a few seconds 
I was safely over the first line French trenches, 
which I had cleared by a bare few yards, the poilus 
beneath shouting as I passed over their heads, and 
had made an easy landing in a shell-hole whose 
crater was big enough to accommodate my machine 
comfortably. 

While mentally congiatulating myself on my es- 



198 Go, Get 'Em! 



cape, and saying " You can't beat a fool for luck," 
I leisurely undid my harness and began to gather 
up my compass, maps and a few personal things, 
preparatory to evacuating, when I heard the excited 
voices of four or five French soldiers calling wildly 
to me from a nearby communication trench. Since 
I could still understand French only when it was 
spoken slowly, and with clear enunciation, their 
words meant nothing to me; but, from the tone 
in which they were spoken, I gained the impression 
that something of interest was up, and that it was 
somehow connected with me. It was. I had sat in 
my plane only a second or two more, wondering 
what was coming off, when I heard the discordant 
wheeeeEEEE of a shell. It passed right over me, 
landed some twenty-five yards beyond, and exploded 
with an earsplitting roar and an eruption of dirt, 
mud, and stones. 

Something told me that it had been sent special 
delivery to William A. Wellman, and, changing my 
mind as to my safety, I scrambled out of my ma- 
chine faster than ever I had before and started a 



High Notes 199 



sprint for the communicating trench, that would 
have done credit to a " ten second " man. As I 
approached it, unceremonious but friendly hands 
grabbed me, and dumped me within its protecting 
sides. 

It was not a nice place at all. There was mud 
and water in generous quantities under foot, and 
more came momentarily from overhead as other 
shells struck and burst, creating havoc in the nearby 
field. The bombardment for my own personal 
benefit lasted for a solid hour and a half. When 
it was finished there was not so much as a splinter 
of my machine left. The Boche must have spent 
a hundred thousand dollars in destroying something 
costing six thousand ! 

Regarded from a distance of three thousand 
miles, and three months' time, it was a highly in- 
teresting experience, but then it did not strike me 
as such at all. I had been bombed in the air ; but 
it had been as nothing when compared with this. 
The noise was simply appalling. 

When they finally got me back to the third line 



200 Go, Get 'Em! 



trench, covered with mud from head to feet, I had 
a greater respect than ever for the boys who have 
to stand for that sort of thing day in and day out for 
weeks. The land may have its advantages, but for 
real comfort and safety give me five miles in the 
air every time. 

The aviation field had been notified of my mishap 
by telephone, and an automobile was waiting to 
carry me home, a very disgusted and crestfallen 
youth. 

Both Hitchcock and I had a " battle of Paris "— 
as permission is commonly called — coming to us 
as a reward for our recent exploit, and, with ten 
whole days of recreation in immediate prospect, I 
quickly forgot the fiasco in which my morning's 
work had ended. 

Dressed in our party best, we left Luneville late 
in the afternoon, and reached Nancy at about seven- 
thirty. It was dark as a pocket, for the quaint old 
town, now sadly shattered, is only ten miles from 
the front, receives a bombing almost every starlit 



High Notes 201 



night, and Hghts — even on automobiles — were ab- 
solutely taboo. 

Still, it made little difference to us, for sight- 
seeing was not on our program. With the second 
in command of our Escadrille — Lieutenant Bachi- 
dan, a tall, slender and distinguished-looking young 
Frenchman with a pointed black mustache — we 
made a bee line for the best restaurant that the town 
boasted. Its name escapes my mind, but it was 
typically French — inside a-gHtter with lights re- 
flected from many big mirrors, pewter and silver- 
ware hung on the walls, and it was filled with of- 
ficers and dazzling girls. 

The meal was a wonderful one for wartimes, 
soup, fillet of sole, veal, artichokes, wine, French 
pastry and cafe noir. I was just paying the check, 
having been less lucky in " flipping " than I had been 
in flying, when, above the merry chatter and laugh- 
ter of the diners, came the conglomerate sound of 
the Alerte — the agonized shriek of the siren whis- 
tles, piercing notes of the bugle and honking of 
many horns. Even to those who have heard it 



202 Go, Get 'Em! 



often, it brings a sudden tightening around the 
heart, for one never knows who are to be the vic- 
tims of the bombs from the blackness above, whose 
arrival the Alerte presages. 

We all sprang to our feet, with the laughter in- 
stantly stilled. The logical thing, of course, was 
to make for the cellar, so we all rushed for the street 
door, and had almost reached it, when there came 
from directly outside a sound like a terrific thun- 
derclap accompanied simultaneously by a nerve-tear- 
ing like that of the lightning's bolt. The explosion 
set the restaurant to rocking violently, windows, 
mirrors and glassware were shattered, the place 
was plunged into darkness, and some of the girls 
fainted. 

When we reached the open air, we saw merely 
the still falling ruins of what, a moment before, had 
been a pretty two-storied stone house immediately 
across the street. 

High above, the stars were shining peacefully, 
and already misty fingers of light were shooting 
upwards and searching the darkness. Now and 



High Notes 203 



then one picked up a Boche machine high in the 
heavens — we learned later that twenty had taken 
part in that evening's raid — and we could see the 
red and yellow lights of the French planes as they 
climbed upward to drive off the invaders, and the 
quick flashes of the anti-aircraft shells bursting 
around and below the enemy. And, strangely 
enough, through and above the voices of the guns, 
we could continually hear the low but strangely 
penetrating growl of the Boche motors. 

This was the fourth night-bombing raid in which 
I had played the part of a helpless spectator, but 
I had not — and never have — become hardened to 
it. The same was true of my two companions, and, 
like three frightened children, we scurried for the 
Lieutenant's automobile, and made more haste than 
was consistent with safety for a railway station, 
three stops down the line. Remember, we had to 
drive, without lights, over black and unfamiliar 
roads. Twice, as we were speeding along, I heard 
the descending whistle of a bomb, one of which 
burst with a blinding flash and terrific detonation 



204 Go, Get 'Em! 



only a little way to our right, and the other farther 
off to the left. 

The sky was now a network of moving search- 
lights which made silver traceries on the black back- 
ground, and I had just stood up excitedly in the 
tonneau to point out one of them in whose path a 
Boche machine appeared like a shimmering white 
night moth, when I was suddenly flung against the 
front seat. The driver had applied his emergency 
brake with all his power, and it was well for us 
that he had done so, for the car came to a grinding 
stop on the very edge of a newly made bomb hole 
fully six feet in diameter, right in the middle of 
the road. Making a cautious detour around the 
brink of this crater, we finally reached our station, 
only to have to wait six weary hours for the Paris- 
bound train which had been held up by the bom- 
bardment. Traveling in Southern France is un- 
certain, at present. 

The first thing that Tom and I did upon reaching 
Paris the next morning was to call upon Dr. Gros. 
The call was a highly pleasant one, for it produced 




Copyright by International Film Service, Inc. 

LIEUTENANT FRANK BAYLIES 



High Notes 205 



not only his congratulations, but checks for five 
hundred francs apiece — a little present from the 
Lafayette Flying Corps in recognition of our vic- 
tory. 

Thereafter my stay in the city was one continual 
round of recreation and I fed full on the many 
pleasures that it had to offer. During it I met 
several other aviators on leave at our hotel, among 
them Major Luf berry, then and until his unhappy 
death, the king of American flyers. He v^as older 
than most of us, but he v^as most genial and wore 
his honors lightly. 

I also ran across Frank Baylies for the first time 
since his departure from Avord, and we " talked 
shop " for quite a while. During the conversation 
he described to me a phenomenal escape that he had 
recently had. His plane had been disabled and 
brought down in No-Man's Land, and the Alpine 
Chaussers who were holding the front line in that 
sector had promptly put up a triangular barrage 
between him and the Huns, he being in its apex. 
Unharmed, he had run and dived into the trench. 



2o6 Go, Get 'Em! 

" But weren't the Boche firing at you? " I asked. 

"Were they? Well, rather, but their bullets 
weren't going fast enough to catch me as I made 
that trip," he replied. 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE RAINBOW IN LORRAINE 

My ten days of much appreciated leave came to 
an end, and on February twenty-first T headed back 
to Luneville, arriving in the evening. 

When I left the train at the familiar station, I 
had the odd sensation of thinking that I must have 
disembarked at the wrong place. Only a little more 
than a week previous, the narrow streets had been 
filled with nothing but wiry little French troops in 
their light blue; now these seemed to have suddenly 
grown bigger, more husky and younger, and to have 
changed their uniforms from the color of the sky to 
an olive drab. I figuratively rubbed my eyes, and 
looked again. The same strange sight met them. 
In every direction were new, yet familiar, types of 
faces, bronzed, alert of expression, and crowned 
with soft slouch hats. 

207 



2o8 Go, Get 'Em! 



My own cap went into the air, and with a wild 
shout I dashed for the nearest group. They were 
the Americans, the Americans at last, and a strange 
happiness made my breath catch in my throat. 
When I had left Luneville there had been not one 
in the town, I had heard not even a rumor of their 
coming, yet now the streets were 'full of them, 
laughing noisily in their happiness to be almost in 
the thick of the fray, and — talking EnglisH. 

Without any trumpeted announcement they had 
come silently up, thousands of them, to take their 
places for the first time with their new allies in the 
front line trenches. Some were already out there 
in the darkness five miles away, small groups 
along a three-mile sector, intermingling with the 
veteran poilus, and learning the art of modern war- 
fare in the stern school of actual experience. The 
others, and greater majority, were still in rest bar- 
racks in the town which had been my home for two 
months, and were fraternizing perfectly with the 
French quartered there also. 

A strange name it was by which they designated 



The Rainbow in Lorraine 209 

themselves — the *' Rainbow Division "; but its ap- 
propriateness was instantly apparent, for not only 
were their hat cords of the various cardinal colors, 
denoting many different branches of the service, but, 
if ever a body of men spelt " hope," it was this one 
— hope for the Allies, hope for civilization and the 
rainbow promise of the coming of more and yet 
more to bring the sunlight of victory after the 
storm. 

Perhaps they were not *' a sight for sore eyes," 
and perhaps I did not talk with them from Colonel 
to cook. Almost immediately I became a frequent 
visitor at mess with certain of the officers, demo- 
cratic princes all. And they seemed almost as glad 
to see some one in the French uniform who could 
speak American, as I was to see them. 

To be sure, my association with these splendid 
men and boys of ours, except when — with an 
added incentive — 1 was in the air over the trenches, 
guarding them from hostile airplanes, was purely 
social; but, when I was off duty, I both saw a good 
deal of their life, and heard many first-hand stories 



210 Go, Get 'Eml 



of their doings, so that I felt almost like one of 
them. 

Since any word concerning the " boys from 
home," who are " over there/' cannot be amiss, I 
will tell one or two of these stories and mention a 
few of "the boys " with whom I became pleasantly 
acquainted. 

Their great commander was in Luneville only 
periodically, and occasion never served so that I 
might have the honor of meeting him personally, 
although I saw him several times and his name was 
on every lip. The stories of how his troops wor- 
ship him are in no wise exaggerated — he is their 
idol, and rightly so, for he is every inch a man and 
a fighter. 

I did, however, become well acquainted with sev- 
eral of the officers, among whom none stands out 
more forcibly in my recollection than Major George 
Emerson Brewer, M.O.R.C, a famous New York 
surgeon in times of peace, and also a close friend 
of the Hitchcocks, father and son. Tom and I 
dined with him a number of times, and I enjoyed 



The Rainbow in Lorraine 211 

immensely his hospitable and genial entertainment. 

Another of my new acquaintances was Captain 
de Forest Willard, a regular army officer, whose 
home was in Philadelphia. He, too, was in the 
Medical Corps, and was a recognized expert in bone 
setting, as well as an authority on " trench feet " — 
a painful affliction and swelling brought on by long 
standing in mud and water. For several years, be- 
fore we entered the war, he had been in England 
and at the front on behalf of the government, mak- 
ing this a special study, I believe. Under him was a 
young Lieutenant named Dicky, from Tarentum, 
Pennsylvania, who was not only a clever physician 
but something even more interesting to us — an 
accomplished pianist. He would frequently come 
to our chateau and make the strings of our old 
instrument talk in ragtime, or the language of the 
classics in music, for the men who were quartered 
there. 

Two others, who were almost always together, 
fine young Texans and the best of sports, were 
Captain Royal A. Ferris, Jr., of Corsicana, and 



212 Go, Get 'Em! 



Captain W. R. Hudson of Dallas, both of the motor 
squadron. I dined with them, or they with me, 
continually. 

From the few localities mentioned you can see 
from how widely separated sections of the good old 
U. S. A. the men of the Rainbow Division came. 
They were not only like a band of brothers repre- 
sentative of the unity of our country, but the high- 
est type of American manhood — the first to volun- 
teer. 

No one section had a monopoly of courage ; they 
were all brave and willing, yet it v^as the white 
troops from Alabama who first established a repu- 
tation for fearlessness and fight, which earned for 
them the name, bestowed by their French comrades 
in arms, of the " American shock troops." 

Like most things of like nature, it came about as 
the result of one particular incident, and I mean to 
tell the story here in all its grewsomeness, for it is a 
sample of what goes on daily and what America has 
got to recognize and face squarely. 

The story is, of course, hearsay; but I can vouch 



The Rainbow in Lorraine 213 

for its truth, for I heard it iirst-harid from some of 
those who participated in the incident, and also saw 
and talked with the victim. 

One night, not long after the Yankees had taken 
their place in the front line trenches, an Alabama 
boy was sent out, under cover of the darkness, to 
a listening post in a shell hole close to the German 
lines. There, all alone, he was surprised by a num- 
ber of Huns and wounded so severely that they left 
him, apparently believing that he was as good as 
dead. But, before they departed, they mutilated his 
body with their bayonets in a most brutally horrible 
and indescribable manner. Six hours later his 
comrades found and rescued him, bringing him into 
the American lines, almost, but not quite, dead. 

When his fellow Alabamans learned what had 
been done to him, and realized the wanton fiendish- 
ness that had caused it, they knelt about him in the 
mud of the trench, and took a fearful and solemn 
oath to avenge him and never take a German pris- 
oner. Nor have they, and if you could have seen 
what I saw, you would have only praise for them. 



214 ^^> Get 'Em! 



The German fighter has ceased to be a human 
being. He is a mad animal — no, he is lower than 
any animal, for his atrocities are the result of dia- 
boHcal premeditation, not the mere kilhng instinct. 

Of quite a different nature was another incident 
that was described to me by one of my new friends, 
and in which anotlier Alabama boy played the lead- 
ing role. I met him also. He was a corporal, a 
huge, light-haired chap, with the mild manners of 
a baby, and a soft Southern drawl in his voice; but, 
as often, appearances were deceitful in his case, and 
he was a " scrapper " from the word go. One 
night he, too, had been on outpost duty, and, when 
he rejoined his comrades in rest billet, he told them 
that he had captured and brought in a Boche pris- 
oner. (This happened before the other incident, by 
the way.) They laughed at his tale and told him 
to tell it to the Marines. The next night he left the 
front trench on an unofficial trip across No-Man's- 
Land through the pitchy darkness, sneaked along 
until he had discovered an enemy outpost and then, 
springing upon him, he carefully knocked him out 



The Rainbow in Lorraine 215 

with a blow from his fist. The German was ahnost 
as big as his captor, but the latter bundled him 
across his shoulders, *' toted " him l:)ack like a bag 
of meal, and threw him down in the trench with 
the drawled-out words, " Thar, now perhaps yo'U 
believe me." They did. 

I might go on to tell you many other like stories, 
both tragic and humorous; but this is a narrative of 
the air, not the trenches, so I will return to my own 
element. 

For the better part of that week I flew daily over 
the Rainbow boys without having a chance to en- 
gage the enemy in their behalf, but February twen- 
tieth produced a bit of excitement which had an un- 
pleasant ending. 

The morning dawned clear, with all conditions 
auspicious for photography, and I was one of seven 
chasse pilots selected to go into Germany as air 
convoy for one of our big Letords, whose observer 
was instructed to take a few new views of Saarburg. 
We made the twenty-five-mile trip, flying low at 
only three thousand meters, from which altitude I 



2l6 Go, Get 'Em! 



could clearly see the country-side with its shining 
canals, rivers and narrow white roads, as we flew 
over them. When we approached the city, laid out 
in dull red and brownish squares, the wispy smoke 
from its buildings, and the darker smudges from the 
steam engines going and coming, were clearly visi- 
ble. 

Undisturbed for a time, our clumsy Letord circled 
slowly around until the photographer had taken all 
the pictures that he desired. Finally his machine 
headed for France with our little planes on either 
side, above and below it, and almost immediately 
I caught sight of twelve speedy Boche Alhatros 
machines coming for us from farther in Germany, 
and they had the altitude on us. 

An Alhatros, by the way, is almost the exact 
counterpart of the Nicuport, except that its wings 
tilt up a trifle, and they, and its rear ailerons, are a 
bit broader. Our planes climbed better, but they 
had it on us in diving. 

As they dove, I shot down beneath the Letord, 
to protect it at its most vulnerable point of attack, 



The Rainbow in Lorraine 217 

at the same time, to the best of my abihty, watching 
out for the enemy. 

In an instant, the air at that spot was the scene 
of a veritable dog light. The enemy greatly out- 
numbered us, but our duty was plain — to protect 
the Letord at all costs. 

As I looked upward at the melee, I saw one 
Boche fly clear and shoot downward almost verti- 
cally, until he was directly beneath me, and ready 
to speed up and attack the machine that I was guard- 
ing. The best defense in the air, as on the earth, 
is an attack, and I started to dive on him. My 
position was excellent, and I should probably have 
disposed of him in quick order; but, just as I pointed 
downward, my eyes caught sight of another ma- 
chine dropping past me, in flames. A hasty side 
glance disclosed the familiar Black Cat of our own 
Escadrille, and the numeral *' 12." It was enough. 
I knew that our Lieutenant Marin had been fatally 
hit, and was doomed. 

It was merely an incident in the day's work, and 
I knew perfectly well where my duty lay; but. 



2l8 Go, Get 'EmI 



drawn by the sort of fascination that a candle exer- 
cises on a moth, I simply could not help following 
that torch in its flaming downward rush, and follow 
it I did, almost to the earth, and close enough to see 
that his plane was a complete wreck. Poor Marin, 
he was burned to death long before his body reached 
the ground, and there both he and his machine were 
consumed. 

My uncontrollable impulse had caused me to lose 
a clear chance to score against the Hun ; but victory 
rested on our wings, and the attackers were beaten 
off with the loss of two planes, while Lieutenant 
Marin was our only fatality. Still, our exultation 
was dampened by his loss, for he was a fine fellow 
and a skillful flyer. 



CHAPTER XV 

INCIDENTS AND ACCIDENTS 

All that had preceded was merely a prologue 
for the happenings of the month of March, culmi- 
nating in the sudden — but I trust only temporary 
— breaking off of my career in the air. 

We welcomed the advent of Spring with keenest 
pleasure. Winter flying is not a thing of joy, and 
the prospect of better weather meant, moreover, in- 
creased activity, which was what we all desired. 

And the month started off with an amusing inci- 
dent which set the whole Escadrille to laughing, and 
at the same time still further demonstrated the big 
part that Fortune plays in flying. One afternoon 
I had finished my patrol and was standing on our 
field in conversation with Captain Azire. As the 
air and sky were clear, we could see our boys re- 
turning singly and in pairs from a considerable dis- 
tance. 

219 



220 Go, Get 'Em! 



Suddenly the captain clutched my arm with one 
hand, and, pointing upward with the other, cried, 
"Look there!" 

High up, and almost above us, I saw a Nicuport 
coming earthward in a spinning nose dive, with the 
speed of a bullet. There were no enemy machines 
about to have disabled it or made necessary such a 
piece of acrobatics, and it looked as though the pilot 
' had completely lost control of his machine. 

" He's done for," I said; " I guess that his rear 
controls are broken, poor chap." 

There was not a thing that we could do to prevent 
the approaching tragedy, and we simply stood spell- 
bound with horror as the doomed plane, spinning 
like a top, hurtled perpendicularly toward the 
ground. 

It had almost reached its destination, and we were 
steeling our nerves for the seemingly inevitable 
crash, when I saw it suddenly straighten out and 
make a perfect " pancake " landing in the middle of 
a little stream that bordered the field. 

Accompanied by the captain and several other 



Incidents and Accidents 221 

pilots and mechanics, I ran for the spot, and, as I 
approached, saw that the machine had been badly 
smashed by its violent impact with the water. Be- 
side it, standing in the icy stream almost up to his 
waist, was a small French aviator — one of the 
youngsters of our Escadrille. He was blubbering 
like a baby. As we reached the bank and he saw 
us, he began to say over and over, " Mon capitaine, 
mon capitaine, j'etais malade en I'air! Voila mon 
appareil! " ('* My captain, my captain, I was sick 
in the air ! Look at my machine ! '*) 

The relief from the tension created by the ex- 
pectation of a terrible tragedy, and the comical sight 
of the lad with his face a picture of distress and 
chagrin, was more than any of us could stand, and 
we fairly howled with mirth. He was helped 
ashore, and there explained that, while high up, he 
had been taken suddenly and violently ill with " mal 
'de Talr " and had probably fainted away, for he 
actually remembered nothing more until the plunge 
into the cold water brought him back to conscious- 
ness. Some inexplicable instinct may have made 



22,2 Go, Get 'Em! 



him right his plane at the last possible moment, 
otherwise his escape was an out and out miracle. 

This being sick in the air is not at all an uncom- 
mon malady among young pilots. You can imag- 
ine what a wrench one's internal anatomy receives 
when, for example, you do a '' Russian Mountain," 
diving precipitously at a speed of a hundred and 
fifty miles an hour, suddenly turn almost at a right 
angle and instantly shoot upward again. Even the 
experienced flyer gets caught napping occasionally, 
forgets to tense his stomach muscles, and then . . . 
" Voila mon appareil ! " 

Within a day or two of this event there came a 
piece of news which meant a good deal to me. I 
happened to be in the Pilotage, or captain's office, 
one morning, when the mail came in. He opened 
one official appearing envelope, read it through, and 
then turned to me with outstretched hand, and said, 
" Congratulations, M. Wellman. I have just been 
notified by the headquarters of the Eighth Army 
that your rank has been raised to that of ' Marechal 
des Logis.' " I was as surprised as I was happy. 



Incidents and Accidents 



223 



The title — literally translated, " Quartermaster " — 
was approximately that of Sergeant, although out- 
ranking it a little, and it carried an increase of pay, 
so that now I would get twelve francs a day. 

At the same time I was also given a still more 
powerful and efficient fighting machine, a two 
hundred and twenty horse-power Nieuport, which 
carried three guns, one, the Vickers that shot 
through the propeller as in my former planes, and 
the other two, Lewis machine guns, which were 
mounted in little pouches on either wing just above 
my head. All three were fired simultaneously by 
the single trigger on my control stick, and were so 
aimed that their bullets would meet, and pass, at 
about two hundred yards distant. 

The next incident of this month, which fairly 
bristled with them, had a different ending from the 
one first described, and it cast a spell over the whole 
Escadrille. It affected me terribly. 

I have already written repeatedly of Tommy 
Hitchcock, for his brief career and mine were closely 
interwoven. We had become fast friends while at 



224 ^^> G^^ 'Em! 

Avord, and, although he had not graduated until 
after I, it was only because he entered the school 
somewhat later, for he beat my record in going 
through the training, and established one which no 
other American has ever equaled. 

After he came to Luneville we flew as team mates 
almost constantly, as you have seen, and, since he 
was the only other American in our Escadrille most 
of the time (Nordoff and Thompson were with us 
for a while, but had been transferred to Manoncourt 
several weeks previous to this), we became chums 
who were as close as brothers. What a flyer and 
fighter he was — a sure " ace " in the making, al- 
though his record was then only two official and 
two unofficial planes. 

On the sixth of March, for some reason which 
I do not know, he left the platoon and flew off alone 
into the enemy's country. Probably he had sighted 
a Boche inviting attack, one that had not been seen 
by any of the rest of us — and I was not with him ! 
Just what actually happened I have yet to learn, al- 
though I may some day; but night came and no 



Incidents and Accidents 225 

Tom Hitchcock, nor could any word of him be 
obtained from the front line observation posts, to 
all of which we anxiously telephoned. He was set 
down among the missing — dead, or, what is often 
■worse in this war, captured by the Huns. I spent a 
blue and most unhappy evening. 

It was not until some time later that we received 
word, through a brief note, that Tom had been 
brought down in a fight near Hatignay, shot through 
the stomach, and was in the hospital prison camp.^ 

With Tom gone I felt lost myself, for we had 
flown so much together that I had come to depend 
upon him, and I trusted him absolutely. I knew 
that if I made an attack, and got into a tight fix, he 
would be right there to lend me his aid, and knowl- 
edge of this kind helps greatly in flying. Not that 
I had any reason to believe that any one of my other 
comrades would not do as much, but the feeling still 

1 On May twenty-ninth Mr. Wellman received a letter from 
Major Hitchcock, saying that he had received word that his 
son Tom was in Geissen, and had been wounded through 
the thigh, and later one saying that General Petain had com- 
missioned Tom as a sous-officer, which would result in his 
transfer to a better prison camp. 



226 Go, Get 'Em! 

persisted, and shortly after Tom's disappearance I 
asked, and received, permission to lly as a one man 
patrol thereafter, except when we were called upon 
for special squadron duty. 

It seemed almost ironical to me that I should be 
the only American in the air over the lines held 
partly by American troops, for more and more of 
the Rainbow boys were being graduated daily from 
their final training and sent forward to hold an 
ever increasing part of the front trench, flanked by 
the veteran poilus. 

There was little time allowed me cither for regret 
or reflection, however, for Tom's loss came on the 
threshold of a new series of lively occurrences in 
which I had a part, the first of them happening on 
the very next day. It came within an " ace "of 
being my last fight ! 

For several days past the observers had seen a 
speedy German Alhatros flying in our sector, and 
everything pointed to its being the plane of the won- 
derful Boche ace, Geigl, for its nose and the last 
half of its fuselage were painted a brilliant red, and 



Incidents and Accidents 227 

it was obviously operated by a master's hand. The 
Germans usually camouflage their machines clev- 
erly; but many of their best pilots paint them in 
glaring colors and fantastic designs, apparently out 
of pure bravado, for of course they can easily be 
spotted and recognized. 

The plane in question, the reports said, always 
flew alone and at a high altitude and its owner was 
apparently out '' looking for a fight," his method of 
procedure being to catch a Frenchman flying " solo," 
and suddenly drop out of the clouds upon him. 
We had all expressed a keen desire to accommodate 
him with a scrap, and in me the desire now burned 
doubly strong, for I was bitter over Tom's fate, and 
wanted to wreak vengeance on the Boche. 

With such feelings in my heart, I started out on 
the morning of the seventh and headed northward 
toward the spot whence Geigl had been previously 
reported. Although I was eager to meet him, I 
went with no spirit of superiority or overconfidence. 
Do not, for an instant, harbor the idea that the Ger- 
man airmen are inferior as a whole to those of the 



228 Go, Get 'Em! 



AllieSo Such is far from true. We may have con- 
trol in the air in most sectors by outnumbering 
them; but, with the possible exception of that in 
the Royal Flying Corps, the average skill is as high 
among Hun aviators as among those of any other 
nation, and their leading " aces " are flying fighters 
of remarkable prowess. Geigl was, 1 think, accred- 
ited with twenty-eight allied planes at this time. 

Perhaps I should qualify the foregoing by saying 
that it was true of the time about which I am writ- 
ing. I am confident that when our Yankee aviators 
are fully trained in great numbers, they will lead all 
others in the air, individually and collectively. 

When I reached the locality toward which I had 
headed, I began to fly about, somewhat aimlessly, in 
a sweeping figure 8, combined with " Russian Moun- 
tains,'* for there was apparently nothing of a hos- 
tile nature anywhere about. 

After some minutes of this sort of thing, during 
which I got to thinking about a variety of matters 
not in the least connected with fighting, I chanced 
to glance above me. My heart gave a wild leap. 



Incidents and Accidents 229 

There, diving directly on me like a plummet, was 
the very plane I sought, and it was not a bit more 
than a hundred and fifty meters over my head ! In 
other words, the German terror had me exactly 
where he wanted me. I knew that I. had fallen into 
his trap, and the unpleasant thought flashed through 
my mind that my time had come, as sure as shoot- 
ing. There was not a second for consideration. 
By instinct merely, I tilted my ailerons and caused 
my plane to fall into a right hand wing slip. In- 
stinct saved me. 

It is a rather odd fact that when an opponent 
does a wing slip below you, it is at first almost im- 
possible to tell in what direction he is tilting, and 
which way his machine will fall. Geigl apparently 
guessed wrong, for he sped by me at a widely di- 
verging angle, firing into space. 

I was at the time well inside the French lines, 
and he did not seem to have a very keen wish to 
engage in battle at a low altitude over the enemy's 
country, for, when he realized that he had missed 
me, he turned and headed eastward immediately. 



230 Go, Get 'Em! 



I righted my plane, took a few ineffectual pot shots 
at him, and then turned homeward, quite well satis- 
fied to have come through alive, although I could 
not say that I had *' met the enemy and he was 
mine." 

I did not have time to be frightened during the 
brief encounter, but I had plenty afterwards, and 
the cold perspiration broke out all over me when 
I thought of what I had escaped, again by pure luck. 

The very next day brought another and new ad- 
venture, from which I drew much experience, but 
no more laurels than I had in my encounter with 
Herr Geigl. 

I awoke to find the weather most disagreeable, 
with a bank of heavy clouds covering the earth at 
not more than a thousand meters' altitude, and I 
anticipated at least a morning when the " no 
school " signal would be given. I had guessed 
right, and for the better part of the day we spent 
our time in the usual manner, waiting for it to 
clear up. 

About four o'clock in the afternoon, when I was 



Incidents and Accidents 231 

out on the field, I saw two German Drachens, or 
observation balloons, slowly arising from the earth 
in the distant east, five miles or perhaps more be- 
hind the Hun third-line trenches. They went 
steadily up and up until they seemed to come to rest 
with their backs against the clouds. I knew, of 
course, that they held two observers each, and that 
they were connected with the ground by wire cables 
attached to motor windlasses mounted on trucks. 

It was a fairly ordinary occurrence to see these 
" sausages " — as we called them — in the sky, and 
I was turning away, without giving them a second 
thought, when Captain Azire came briskly up, and 
said, " Wellman, I want you to go up and attack 
that right-hand balloon. Have you incendiary bul- 
lets in your plane? " 

My answer was in the affirmative, and, hastily 
getting into my machine, I headed upward and east- 
ward; by the time I had reached the front line of 
Franco-American trenches I was ready to pop into 
the bank of dense clouds. With one final glance in 
the direction of my intended quarry, I pulled my 



232 Go, Get 'Em! 



control stick and dove headfirst into their soft, 
moistly enveloping bosom. It is almost impossible 
to describe the sensation of flying within the clouds. 
There is a feeling of being stifled, all idea of direc- 
tion disappears, and it is actually impossible to see 
the front of your plane. If you can imagine your- 
self being wrapped in a huge mass of light gray 
cotton wool of a consistency much denser than the 
thickest fog which you have ever known, you will 
have it. 

The theory of fighting among the clouds is simple 
enough. You merely estimate how long it is going 
to take you to reach a given point, judging your 
direction as best you can, and then pop out again 
when you think that you have arrived. 

But the practice is quite another thing. For a 
few minutes I flew through the *' light darkness," 
then headed downward to peek out like a mouse 
from its hole. 

I saw my balloon, all right — it was fully five 
miles behind me, and to my left, which was rather 
discouraging. 




Copyri-^ht by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y. 

ENEMY OBSERVATION BALLOON FALLING IN FLAMES 



Incidents and Accidents 233 

Unseen from below, I hastily reentered my pro- 
tecting mantle of invisibility, swung about and tried 
again. When I was quite sure that I had covered 
the distance which intervened between the sausage 
and me, I nosed downward and peeked out once 
more. This time I was not a particle over three 
miles off in my calculations, and, swearing roundly 
at myself, I headed upwards to resume my seem- 
ingly hopeless game of blindman's buff. Twice 
more I made my airy reconnoitrance, each time 
emerging a little nearer the unsuspecting enemy, and 
on my fifth attempt my judgment was faultless and 
1 came out squarely on top of him. The only trou- 
ble this time was that when I shot out of the cloud 
I could not see a thing but more clouds, and it was 
some seconds before I discovered, to my great sur- 
prise, that / was flying exactly upside down. 

This will probably seem almost incomprehensible 
to you, but it is a well-established fact that, no mat- 
ter how good an equilibrium test a man may have 
passed, he has no way of knowing in which direc- 
tion his head and heels are pointing after he has 



234 ^^y ^^^ '^^' 



flown in the clouds for some time, until his eyesight 
comes to his aid. Centrifugal force and the speed 
of his machine almost completely overcome grav- 
ity. 

I righted myself as soon as possible by doing a 
quick turn, and dove in a beautiful position, but 
I w3ls too late. I had been observed, the balloon 
was rapidly being pulled down by its windlass and, 
as I neared it, shooting as fast as possible, I saw 
the two observers jump into space with their para- 
chutes. Down they floated, as unconcernedly as 
performers at a picnic, and, although I might have 
killed them both in the air, I refrained, for they 
were unarmed and helpless, and the French and 
Americans do not make war on such. 

My incendiary bullets failed to do any damage to 
the sausage, and an instant later I found myself too 
busy extricating myself from an unpleasant position 
to bother with it further, for the Huns on the earth 
below now began to shoot at me with chains, on 
either end of which were flaming balls of pitch. If 
one of these had struck and wrapped itself about 



Incidents and Accidents 235 

any part of my plane, I would have reached the 
earth in the guise of a meteorite. They came too 
close for comfort, but did not score a hit, and once 
more I was obliged to start homeward in complete 
disgust. Captain Azire had been watching me, and 
soothed my wounded feelings somewhat by telling 
me that it was not at all a simple matter to " get " 
a balloon, that I had done reasonably well for a first 
attempt, and would have better luck the next time. 

As for me, I sincerely hoped that there would be 
no ** next time." I would rather attack a whole 
flock of airplanes than one sausage, after that ex- 
perience. 

The day which followed, March ninth, was to be 
the day of days in my flying life. The fireworks 
started early. It was a beautifully clear morning 
and I started off on a solo patrol soon after day- 
break, flying about fifty-two hundred meters high. 
Not long after I went into the air I began to see 
shells from our anti-aircraft guns bursting to my 
left over the forest of Parroy. I piqued down to 
discover what the excitement was all about, and 



236 Go, Get 'Em! 



soon caught sight of an enemy's bi-place observa- 
tion Rumplcr over the woods. Mine was the only 
French plane in the neighborhood, and, knowing 
that the Hun was doubtless carrying away some per- 
fectly good photographs of our positions in that 
sector, and that it was my duty to see to it that they 
were not delivered to the man who plotted the artil- 
lery fire, I got busy. Performing the prescribed 
attack instantly, I got within fifteen yards of the 
bottom of my opponent's plane before opening fire 
on it, and my first shot must have killed the Boche 
observer instantly, for his body fell half out of the 
fuselage, held in only by his straps. 

My upward momentum carried me well above the 
Rumpler, but I felt that I had it, for I had evened 
the odds and reduced it to a one-man plane, so I 
turned with the intention of diving directly on it. 
But just at that instant I caught sight of no less 
than five Albatros planes diving straight for me 
out of the German air. In my excitement I had 
not seen them before, and now, deciding in favor 
of discretion, I turned my dive into a renversement, 




Copyright by Underwood & Underwoo.l, X. Y. 

BRINGING DOWN A HUN 
(From a painting by Geoffrey Watson) 



Incidents and Accidents 



237 



escaped their first charge by scooting upward, and 
skipped for my home field. 

The enemy escaped, to be sure, but he was minus 
one-half of his personnel. 



CHAPTER XVI 

OVER THE RAINBOW 

Have you ever experienced an indescribable feel- 
ing that something unusual is going to happen soon, 
that brings with it an unconscious quickening of the 
pulse? I had it all that day, although there was 
nothing to account for it. After my return from 
the morning's scrap Captain Azire excused me until 
mid-afternoon, but said that we would go up in 
patrol at four o'clock, as usual. There was nothing 
in his words or manner to indicate that at that hour 
my compatriots were going to make their first " over 
the top " assault on the entrenched Boche, nothing 
to give me an inkling that this was to be the 
memorable day when the Yanks would take their 
first stride in the march to Berlin. 

We all knew that the day was approaching; but 
not that it was at hand, until a quarter of an hour 

238 



Over the Rainbow 239 



before the time when we were to go up for our 
afternoon poHce work. 

At three- forty-five Captain Azire came up to me 
as I stood on our piste, waiting for the hour to 
arrive, and said in the quick, decisive manner of a 
French officer, " Wellman, at four o'clock there is 
to be an attack on the German Hnes and the Ameri- 
can troops are going to take part. You are to fly 
as leader of the lowest patrol at one thousand 
meters. I am giving you eight other machines and 
our ow^n second patrol will be just above you. There 
will be still other patrols from all the flying groups 
of this sector at all the prescribed altitudes up to six 
thousand meters. 

" These are your orders. Under no conditions 
zvill you allow an enemy's machine to Hy over the 
French and American lines! If they attack, and 
your machine gun jams, ram your opponent! 
" You will start in five minutes." 
I saluted, and he turned quickly away. 
Even now the memory of that afternoon is dis- 
tinct in my mind, down to the smallest details. I 



240 Go, Get 'Em! 



know that, when he left, I had a peculiar feeling 
inside. It was not wholly because of excitement, 
or from thought of the importance of the task which 
had been assigned to me. It had something of both 
of those things in it, and, added to them, was the 
uncomfortable knowledge that, if my gun did jam, 
the coming flight would be my last. It could have 
only one outcome — a dead Boche, and a no less 
dead Wellman. 

Sensing that something unusual was up, all of the 
men of my patrol had gathered nearby while the 
captain was talking to me. I called them together, 
repeated the orders which I had just received, and 
added, '' I will fly as usual " — which meant that I 
was to lead and they to follow in a vol de groupe, 
each one fifty meters behind and above his prede- 
cessor — '' I will make my turns slowly and rely on 
the customary signal when about to attack. One 
thing more. Under no circumstances are any of 
you to attack until I give that signal." 

They nodded silently, and each went to his ma- 
chine. 



Over the Rainbow 



241 



I had now risen to the estate of having three 
mechanics, and with their aid I donned my combi- 
nation flying suit and helmet, and got into my plane, 
now the " CELIA V." One of them strapped me 
securely into my harness, and by that time Captain 
Azire had approached again and taken his stand be- 
fore the row of nine machines, which stood like race 
horses before the starting line. 

"Vous etes pret, mon Marechal des Logis?" he 
asked of me. 

'' Oui, mon Capitaine." 

He nodded. Our several mechanics sprang 
smartly to the propellers and yelled, "Coupe!" 
All of us pilots cut our motors, and reduced the 
gasoline. 

"Contact!" 

We gave them the spark and increased the juice. 
The mechanics gave the nine propellers a whirl and 
they ceased to be two thin blades of wood and be- 
came misty circles. 

While two of my men still held the wings I tried 
out my engine, and found it ready. All the others 



242 Go, Get 'Em! 



were doing the same, and the air was vibrant with 
the whirr and clatter. 

A command, even if it had been shouted in sten- 
torian tones, would not have reached my ears, but 
I kept my eyes fixed on the commander. He waved 
his hand, my mechanics removed the blocks from 
beneath the wheels of my plane, jumped aside, and 
1 taxied away across the field, pulled back on my 
control stick, and glided lightly into the air. 

The others followed, and, by the time I had 
reached my prescribed altitude, and the second line 
trench, they were arrayed behind me in battle for- 
mation. Then I throttled my motor down until I 
judged by its sound — I seldom looked at the indi- 
cator which recorded the number of the propeller's 
revolutions — that I was creeping along at a snail's 
pace of about a hundred miles an hour, and then 
began my three-mile patrol back and forth, back and 
forth over the line. 

High above, the sky was the cloudless pale blue 
of early Spring — almost the color of the uniform 
I wore. In its mystical transparency it faded away 



Over the Rainbow 243 

into an infinity which made the Httle things of cloth, 
wood and wire seem puny, insignificant. Neverthe- 
less the void above my head was now almost black 
with them, flying in files, and circling like flocks of 
migratory birds, eight a thousand meters over me, 
eight more another thousand up, and so, up and up, 
until I could see the topmost group nearly three 
miles in altitude, mere black specks against the 
blue. 

Below, a thousand yards, lay the far-stretching 
fields of glorious France and inglorious Germany, 
soft green in their new verdure, except for the in- 
numerable ugly, dark scars from recent wounds. 
To the north, east and west they faded away into 
the dimly distant horizon; to the south they were 
walled in by the snow-capped Vosges Mountains, 
sparkling in the sun, sinking rapidly in its jour- 
ney westward. 

From my low altitude I could clearly distinguish 
the historic little gray villages, now sadly shattered 
and desolate ; the roads, despite the camouflage over 
them which was well calculated to deceive enemy 



244 ^^' ^^^ 'Em\ 



birdmen who were flying high enough to be out of 
range of our anti-aircraft guns; and our first, sec- 
ond and third line trenches, stretching north and 
south Hke narrow black ribbons, carelessly unrolled. 

In the first line, just beyond where I was flying, 
appeared our boys and those of our ancient ally, 
looking like the tiny tin soldiers of babyhood days. 
At that height I could not distinguish them apart; 
but I knew that the Yanks held about one mile in 
the center, and that the poilus flanked them on either 
side. 

Eastward I could see other parallel lines of 
black — the German trenches. All was motionless 
there, and no hostile airplanes were in sight. 

Indeed, I felt that, if I were to cut off my motor, 
and the pilots of all the other planes behind and 
above me were to do the same, the calm and silence 
would have been like that of a Sunday morning at 
home in old New England. 

Suddenly, just as the hands of my wrist watch 
reached the hour of four to the dot, the shell-scarred 
fields below, and to the west, were filled with flashes 



Over the Rainbow 245 

of flame, belched forth by guns concealed within 
those ruined villages, shell holes, and clumps of 
what had once been living trees. I could not see 
the guns themselves — more camouflage — nor 
could I hear their crashing detonations over the 
racket which my motor was making, but I knew that 
the preparatory barrage had begun; that soon the 
tiny marionettes below would be on their fateful 
way across No-Man's-Land. 

The thought that the boys from home were about 
to receive their baptism of fire in an over-the-top 
attack made my heart beat faster. 

This, however, was not all that I was thinking as 
I led my patrol leisurely back and forth while the 
shells flew by beneath. I remembered that I was 
the only American in the air at that time and place, 
and it was with a feeling of deep regret that I con- 
sidered this. Only one American serving as the air 
guard for the Americans as they went into the test 
battle, and he in a French machine, a French uni- 
form, and fighting under the Tri-color, and not the 
Stars and Stripes ! 



246 Go, Get 'Em! 



There was not long given me for such delibera- 
tions. One instant the eastern air was clear to the 
horizon; the next I saw a cloud of black specks, like 
a swarm of flies, mounting into the sky over there. 
Little by little they grew larger, assumed the form 
of airplanes, and the mass separated into detached 
groups at altitudes corresponding to ours. 

It was the Boche ! 

Their several platoon leaders reached the second 
line of German trenches, a thousand yards distant 
from us, and turned as we had. Now they fell into 
step with us. Two minutes, that seemed like as 
many hours, passed, and still they flew back and 
forth in lines paralleling our own. I waited tensely 
for the moment when one of them should have the 
nerve to break away from the procession and start 
the attack. That afternoon we were to defend 
merely. 

It happened ! A big bi-place Rumpler broke sud- 
denly from the lowest group directly opposite me. 
Closely followed by a protecting escort of six deadly 
little Albatros planes, he headed toward our lines. 



Over the Rainbow 247 

The gauntlet was thrown down. It was up to me 
to accept the challenge. 

I gave the signal by making my craft rock from 
side to side rapidly, and dove, with my eyes fixed 
on the leader. He was mine; the others of my 
patrol by common consent turned their attention to 
the escort. I flew past the Rumpler in a vertical 
dive so fast that its gunner had not a chance in a 
million to " get " me, then swung into a sharp 
*' Russian Mountain " and sped up at its *' blind 
spot," faster than any arrow. The battle madness 
seized hold of me, and, with my senses in its exult- 
ant grip, I pressed the trigger when the Hun plane 
was only fifteen yards above me, and three con- 
verging streams of steel poured into it. I passed 
Hke a flash; but not before I had seen his gunner 
drop with hands dangling over the side, as had my 
victim in the morning. 

The Boche was doomed; but I was not in at the 
kill alone. As I sped skyward I saw the dark flash 
of another Nieuport diving on it, and by the num- 
ber knew that it held Ruamps, one of my French 



248 Go, Get 'Em! 



comrades, and I knew, too, that he had disposed of 
his first adversary, and had come to help me with 
the more powerful machine. 

Ruamps' gun spit fire, and, on his first attack, he 
killed the pilot. As I turned my plane, and glanced 
downward to determine my position before making 
another attack, I saw the Rumpler, already in 
flames, tumbling over and over earthwards. Into 
No-Man's-Land it crashed, to direct no shell fire 
against our boys that day. 

The end of my first attack had left me at eight 
hundred meters' altitude, flying free, and — looking 
about me — I saw another Boche just below and 
headed into France. 

The words of my orders echoed in my mind, 
" Under no circumstances will you allow an enemy's 
machine to cross over the French and American 
lines." 

Pulling on my control stick, I shot upwards to 
gain more altitude, performed a renversement, and 
was in a perfect attacking position above my new 
opponent. He must be downed, immediately. I 



Over the Rainbow 



249 



was on the point of starting my dive when, behind 
me, and above the deafening racket of my own 
motor, I heard a rapid " clack, clack, clack," like the 
quick clapping of hands. I knew the sound. It 
was that of a mitrailleuse , and the question as to 
whether it was mounted on the plane of friend or 
foe was speedily answered, for a streak of flame 
flashed past my machine, just to the left. The 
Boche that shot that *' tracer " bullet had almost got 
my exact range. 

A hasty glance over my shoulder showed him to 
me, diving almost vertically toward the tail of my 
machine. There was not a fraction of a second to 
be lost. He had me, just as Geigl had, and, profit- 
ing by my previous experience, I went into an in- 
stantaneous side wing-slip. The Alhatros passed 
me like a shot, did a vertical virage and headed for 
home. 

I was safely out of the trap, and, as my other 
enemy was still below, and a quick survey of the 
air above showed me that I had nothing further to 
fear from that quarter, I made my postponed dive. 



250 Go, Get 'Em! 



I reserved my fire, so as to make a sure thing of 
it this time, and I was within twenty-five feet of him 
before he saw me coming. Then he showed his 
skill by diving perpendicularly in turn, and, as soon 
as he saw that I was following, pulled his machine 
up into the beginning of a loop-the-loop. Perhaps 
he thought that I would be caught by this trick and 
pass below him so that he could get me from above, 
and behind, at the finish of his turn. If so, he was 
wrong. I doubt if I have ever been so quick to 
think and act as I was that afternoon under the 
stress of the battle, and, as soon as I saw him 
turn upwards, I did the same and looped after 
him. 

When he was at the top of his turn, flying head 
downward, and I was speeding up from beneath, not 
quite upside down myself, but with the nose of my 
plane pointing dead at him, I pressed the trigger. 
My three guns belched their intermittent fire, and, 
as I rushed past the Boche, I saw him, quite clearly, 
crumple up in a heap, the expression of hate frozen 
on his face. Out of control, his plane went spin- 



Over the Rainbow 251 

ning down, and fell, a tangled mass of wreckage, 
almost in the American first line of trenches. 

Righting my own plane by means of the useful 
wing slip, I surveyed the scene about me. Flyers 
there were, everywhere; but they were all French 
and most of them bore the Black Cat insignia. The 
enemy was vanquished, completely beaten and fled. 

I checked my motor and glided gently down to a 
level of a bare three hundred meters above the bat- 
tlefield, where I could watch what was happening 
below, in safety, for the barrage had ended. 

Just beneath me was a long line of broad brimmed 
steel helmets of dull yellow. A little farther to the 
left the helmets were smaller and changed their 
color to dull blue. I saw the diminutive figures 
clad in khaki and horizon blue scramble out of the 
trench and start eastward over the torn-up ground 
of No-Man's-Land. They seemed to me to move, 
oh, so slowly. Their pace appeared suicidal. 
Here and there the sun glinted on a gleaming bay- 
onet and I caught the tiny flash of light. 

The Yanks, and their brave allies, the poilus, 



252 Go, Get 'Em! 



were on their way into Germany, and I devoutly 
wished them the best of luck on their trip 

My companions and I had done our little bit ; the 
air was clear of hostile planes; and the rest was up 
to them. 

For a moment or two I watched the strange game 
taking place on the checker board below, gripped by 
the fascination of it; but then a glance at my dial 
showed me that my gas was getting dangerously 
low and I regretfully turned the nose of my plane 
westward in a wide circle, and headed for home. 

Others were doing the same. The game was 
over, as far as we were concerned. As I landed. 
Captain Azire came towards me at a walk that was 
more than half a run, and, before my mechanics 
could help me out, he had grasped my hand and 
said that he had already received word by telephone 
that an observation balloon and two observers, near 
the front, had reported that a Nieuporf bearing a 
Black Cat and numbered " lo " had brought down 
two machines during the fight. " Number lo " — 
as I need scarcely tell you — was the " CELIA V." 



Over the Rainbow 253 

Ruamps had accounted for another and a fourth 
Boche paid the final toll. But one French airman 
had been called upon that afternoon to sacrifice his 
life, and Escadrille N. 87 had suffered no casualties. 

It was a great day, a wonderful day for us all, 
and especially for me; but I was too overwhelm- 
ingly happy, and too tired, to respond to his words 
of congratulation, as he wrung my hand again and 
again. 

At seven-thirty that evening, while we were hav- 
ing a dinner in celebration, with champagne in 
honor of the day's achievements, and all of us were 
as happy as boys at home after a football victory, 
an orderly entered, carrying a piece of paper, saluted 
Captain Azire, who was dining with us, and handed 
it to him. 

He glanced at the message, smiled happily, and — 
calling for silence — read aloud the words, " The 
French and American troops have this afternoon 
taken three lines of the enemy's trenches." 

There was a mad outburst of cheers and yells. 
We all sprang to our feet and began an Apache 



254 G^' ^^* '^^' 



dance; but he demanded silence again, and read an 
additional sentence, " The Americans conducted 
themselves in a most courageous manner." 

Again the chorus of yells rang out, and this time 
my voice was raised above all the rest, for the boys 
of the Rainbow Division who had been tried and 
not found wanting. 

lAs a result of his achievement in bringing down two 
planes within a few minutes of each other on the afternoon 
of March ninth, Marechal des Logis Wellman received an- 
other gold palm leaf on his Croix de Guerre, and the follow- 
ing citation, which included recognition for two victories won 
previously : 

"Le Pilote Americain Marechal des Logis Wellman, 
William Augustus, pilote de chasse, montrant les plus belles 
qualites d'audace et d'ardeur offensive. 

"Le 20 Janvier, ayant pris un bi-plane ennemi en chasse 
au-dessus Nancy, le poursuit jusqu'a son terrain a plus de 25 
kilometres dans les lignes, mitraillant a bout port les 
hangars et tuant le pilote. 

"Le TO fevrier, mitraille a faible altitude un terrain d'avi- 
ation ennemi. 

"Le 9 mars, abat un bi-plane ennemi de regulage dans la 

region de P , et presqu'immediatement pres abat un des 

monoplace ennemi, d'escorte."— Editor. 



CHAPTER XVII 

HITS AND MISSES 

After this memorable day there came a lull. 
Something more than a week passed by, spent in 
uneventful flying, and my life settled back into the 
old routine. I continued to fly alone — almost a 
free lance — the greater part of the time. Within 
certain limits I was my own dictator, so long as I 
kept within the scope of duty, which was to guard 
our front from attack by air, and protect it from 
hostile observation machines. 

On " St. Patrick's day in the morning " I went 
aloft soon after dawn, and, as the sun climbed up, 
too, and with his rays swept away the light vapors 
which departing* night had left behind, I decided to 
vary my uninteresting cruise up and down behind 
our lines by making a sightseeing excursion into the 

255 



256 Go, Get 'Em! 



enemy's country. My objective was Mittersheim, 
an aviation field some eighteen miles back of the 
Hun front lines, and in the vicinity of the spot 
where Tom had been wounded and captured 

Flying after the manner of Geigl at the fairly 
high altitude of sixty-five hundred meters, from 
which height the earth begins to lose its details and 
take on the appearance of a topographical map, not 
unlike those which you are now seeing in illustrated 
weeklies, I flew until I had arrived at a point about 
three and a half miles over the aviation field which 
was my destination. 

Far* beneath me it appeared, a diminutive patch 
of light green bordered by threadlike lines of black, 
— ithe trenches — and covered on one side with 
square pinheads of light gray which I knew were 
the hangars. Nearer me, by a thousand yards, were 
three toy machines circling leisurely about, and I 
was sure that they were German, since the 
" Archies " on the field had nothing to say to them. 

The odds were rather against me, and were in- 
creased by the fact that I was far into German ter- 



Hits and Misses 257 

ritory; but the call of battle was too strong to be 
withstood that morning. It set my blood a-tingle, 
and with its chant ringing in my ears I slipped into 
a moderate pique dive, with my motor still going, 
and approached them as a cat would three mice at 
play. 

Strangely enough, I managed to get within five 
hundred yards of them before I, or my true nation- 
ality, was discovered. Then their leader sensed 
something wrong, and signaled to the other two in 
the usual way. 

It was now one of two things for me — fight or 
flight. 

I made up my mind instantly, looked above and 
about, to make sure that the air was free of other 
hostile craft, and then went into a vertical dive as 
straight as an arrow for the last of the trio, who 
were speeding away as fast as their wings could 
carry them. 

At my superior altitude I had complete mastery 
of the situation, for the time being at least, and, 
rushing downward, I gave him my full gunfire fair 



258 Go, Get 'Em! 



and square from the point-blank range of fifteen 
yards. 

The pilot toppled, and his plane fell into the spin- 
ning nose dive that almost always presages a plum- 
met drop to earth in ruins. Satisfied that I had 
accounted for him, I made a quick " Russian Moun- 
tain " in order to regain my altitude over the other 
tv^o. 

I v^as successful, turned and dove again, to be 
mixed up in a " free-for-all " v^ith both of them, a 
minute later. At my first shot the one on the right 
slid off into a v^ing slip, apparently the recipient of 
my bullet, and, as the third circled away and headed 
for home, I followed the other down, firing all the 
time, and had the glorious satisfaction of seeing his 
plane smash into a big open field below. My own 
spiral swoop carried me almost to the ground, and, 
as I straightened out, barely thirty feet above it, 
I could plainly see my first victim lying motionless 
amid the twisted wreckage which had been his ma- 
chine a few moments before. 

The fight and victory had heated my blood to the 



Hits and Misses 259 



fever point, and I believe that I actually became de- 
lirious for the time being, for, instead of doing the 
logical thing, and making good my escape from a 
scrape from which luck had extricated me tempo- 
rarily, I continued to fly at the dangerously low alti- 
tude of a hundred meters. And, as I flew, I shot 
at every German military thing my eyes fell upon. 

The roads were all camouflaged by the erection 
of strips of painted cheese cloth suspended above 
them by poles; but they were plainly visible to me 
from that height, and into auto trucks, artillery and 
advancing bodies of troops I poured my fire as I 
sailed above them. I was on the warpath, and again 
shouting like an Indian. 

My mad escapade ended by my turning and 
sweeping along the first line trench, upon the occu- 
pants of which I expended my few remaining cart- 
ridges. Not a single one was left when I reached 
home, unscathed. 

The captain was on hand to demand a report of 
what I had been up to, and, although he repeated 
the familiar phrase, " Tous les Americains sont 



26o Go, Get 'Em! 



fous," he smiled delightedly as he said it, and at 
once telephoned to all the outlying observation posts, 
to find out if my iight had been officially witnessed. 

It had not, of course, having occurred too far into 
Germany, so I got no credit on the books for my 
double victory. But I scarcely cared. The fight 
itself brought satisfaction enough. 

That was the beginning of another wave of ad- 
ventures, and the next one occurred the following 
morning. 

Again there had been coming reports from a dis- 
trict a little to the north of us to the effect that a 
Boche bi-place machine had been making trips over 
the French lines to take " regulage " — that is, direct 
the fire of the artillery — and for several days I had 
been making little jaunts in that direction in the 
hope of waylaying it, but without success. Its 
presence had been again signaled on the day when 
I was paying my call on Mittersheim, but I had been 
" otherwise engaged." This morning, however, I 
set out with a definite purpose in view. I was going 
to " get " the Boche, if he put in an appearance. 



Hits and Misses 261 

The morning was clear, with a moderate wind, 
and I went up to three thousand meters and slipped 
leisurely along, well behind the French lines, wait- 
ing for the enemy to put in an appearance. 

An hour passed without a sign of him, or any- 
thing happening to break the monotony of my self 
appointed patrol; but, just as I was about to start 
back for the field, I saw him coming. His plane 
was flying swiftly into France at not more than eight 
hundred meters from the ground. 

To my astonishment he came directly on toward 
a point almost beneath me. Either he had not 
caught sight of me at all, or was relying upon his 
own excellent camouflage to conceal him from my 
sight. Indeed, it might have, if I had not been on 
the keen lookout for him, so remarkably did his 
machine blend with the earth below. 

When he had obligingly entered the trap which 
I had laid for him, I piqued and then started a verti- 
cal dive directly behind him. At the same instant 
the pilot saw me coming, made a quick vertical 
virage and headed for home. My falcon swoop 



262 Go, Get 'Em! 



brought me below him, just over No-Man's-Land 
and, doing a " Russian Mountain " and renverse- 
ment, I fired several shots, and then went into a side 
wing-slip to save myself from continuing upward 
and passing close to him, which would have given 
his gunner a clean shot at me Would have — that 
is — if he had been alive to take advantage of it; 
but, as I sped away, and upward to regain my alti- 
tude, I saw that my gunfire had ended his fighting 
days forever. 

Repeating the same procedure I attacked again 
and again without scoring a decisive hit, and by the 
time I was ready to start my fifth dive we were both 
well into German territory, although I scarcely real- 
ized it in my deep absorption. 

Just as I pushed my control stick forward to 
lower my rear ailerons and shoot downward, I heard 
the spiteful banging of a mitrailleuse, and simul- 
taneously a tell-tale streak of light passed from the 
rear almost between the planes of my machine. It 
was a " tracer " bullet, of course, and brought a 
pointed warning that more company had arrived. 



Hits and Misses 263 

My head flew around and I saw a pair of Alba- 
tros machines above and behind me, all set for an 
attack. Now I dove with a double purpose. I 
planned instantly to use my original enemy as a 
shield, if possible, and, with this in view, I ma- 
neuvered to get fairly close beneath him. Then, by 
watching the movement of his rudder and rear 
ailerons^ and duplicating it exactly, I followed his 
every turn, and, being the more speedy, kept creep- 
ing closer and closer all the time. 

I had him in a corner, and was taking no chances 
by firing before I was certain of making my shot 
tell. 

Then, just as my finger was curving about the 
trigger, one of the Albatros planes dove past me, 
brushing by so close that I might almost have 
reached out and touched him. He failed to distract 
my attention, however; my mitrailleuse spoke and 
called the pilot into eternity. The big machine 
turned sharply, like an animal which has received 
its death wound, and, out of control, went spinning 
down to destruction. 



264 Go, Get 'Em! 



Quite content to let well enough alone this time, 
I started a spiral climb by means of which I quickly 
outdistanced the other two, although one of them 
made a futile attack before I got wholly free. 

This was my third unofficial victory in two days, 
for it, too, had occurred too far behind the Hun 
lines to have been observed and recorded in my 
favor. 

The final fight of my brief flying career at that 
time took place about a week later. I was patrol- 
ling alone as usual, and was over No-Man's-Land 
when I came upon a monoplane Boche plane doing 
the same stunt. 

His machine was an Alhatros, and in speed and 
gunfire almost exactly equal to mine. He also 
turned out to be my equal, either in efficiency or 
inefficiency, as the case may have been, and for 
fully twenty minutes we maneuvered about one an- 
other, doing all the tricks known to aviation and 
apparently having chances innumerable to dispatch 
one another. Every one of them went to waste, 
and at last I fired my final cartridge and turned 



Hits and Misses 265 

toward home, fully expecting him to pursue and 
make the most of his opportunity. 

Instead, he, too, turned homeward, and I con- 
cluded that he, like myself, had exhausted his am- 
munition. And as we parted we waved each other 
farewell. 

Probably he was hoping, as I was, that we might 
meet another time and try our rivalry out to a con- 
clusion. 



CHAPTER XVIII 

TWO MIRACLES 

It is not every man who can say that, in one day, 
he was the victim of one miracle, and had his life 
saved by another. I can, truthfully; but the com- 
bination put a sudden end to my flying- — tempo- 
rarily, at least. 

This happened on the twenty-first day of March, 
just about four months after I had started my real 
work. The day dawned gloriously, giving no pre- 
monition that it had anything out of the ordinary 
in store for me, and I completed an uneventful 
morning patrol and was up in the air again about 
four in the afternoon. Over the American trenches 
and No-Man's-Land I flew with no particular object 
in view, other than to keep a sharp lookout for 
Boche machines. None were in sight, which was 
not at all unusual, for at this time we had a fair 

266 



Two Miracles 267 



control of the air in our sector and they seldom 
bothered us, unless there was some special reason 
for so doing. 

In fact everything was quiet, above and below, 
and the earth seemed wrapped in Springtime som- 
nambulance. Back and forth I flew at an altitude 
of fifty-three hundred meters, guiding my plane by 
instinct as you might a bicycle, and thinking of 
almost everything but war, and personal danger. 
There was no enemy in the air to attract my atten- 
tion, and I had long since ceased to worry about the 
** Archies." These anti-aircraft guns were a stand- 
ing joke w^ith us, as I have said. As a method of 
keeping airplanes at a respectable distance from 
earth by means of a barrage of bursting shrapnel 
they are of some value; but an actual hit by them 
is nothing short of a miracle, which is hardly 
strange when one considers the diminutive size and 
the tremendous speed of the airy target at which 
they have to fire. 

Then, with the utmost unexpectedness, occurred 
the first miracle. 



268 Go, Get 'Em! 



Out of the clear sky came a blinding flash in my; 
face; a crashing detonation in my ears. Half- 
stunned for a second, I closed my eyes, then opened 
them to a realization that my plane was pointing 
perpendicularly downward and spinning rapidly. 
A solitary shell from a Boche " Archie " had ex- 
ploded directly in front of me and into the hole 
which it had torn in the air my machine had dived 
automatically. 

It took me a perceptible amount of time to get my 
mind sufficiently cleared of the daze which the ex- 
plosion had brought, so that I could rightly under- 
stand what had happened. Then I concluded that 
I was neither dead nor injured, and — thanking my 
lucky star for another narrow escape — I cut off 
my motor and drew back my control stick to bring 
my plane out of its plunging descent. 

Nothing happened. With a feeling merely of 
utter surprise, I tried again. Still I continued to 
rush earthward, head first and whirling. The aw- 
ful truth began to dawn upon me. I looked around 
and upward at the tail of my fuselage. Part of the 



Two Miracles 269 



canvas there was flapping violently, and now the 
full terrifying fact rushed over my mind. The Hy- 
ing shrapnel had scored a clean hit. My back con- 
trol wires were shot away, my rear ailerons were 
out of commission, and I was completely helpless. 
Below me, still nearly three miles distant, but ris- 
ing vi^ith appalling speed, was the hard earth. I 
needed no one to tell me what was going to happen 
in a few seconds when we two met. 

There may be men who can face the prospect of 
certain and immediate death with cool courage and 
unconcern; if so, I am not of their number. I was 
so frightened that for an instant all my physical 
powers became as weak as water, and I discovered 
the truth of the saying that the events of a drown- 
ing man's past life flash before his mind. Cer- 
tainly I thought of a whole lot of sins of omission 
and commission that my past held; I thought of my 
little mother at home, and I prayed, not as the 
scribes do, but with my whole heart. 

Then a friendly current of air — sent, perhaps, 
in answer to that prayer, who knows? — changed 



270 Go, Get 'Em! 



my spinning nose dive into a sweeping spiral, for 
my side controls were all right ; but, from a height 
of twenty-five hundred meters, I continued to speed 
downward, helpless, and although a little slower 
than before, no less inexorably. 

I was in the clutch of circumstances over which 
no mortal could possibly have any contol, and the 
titter helplessness of my position now brought a men- 
tal reaction. My prayers turned to profanity, and 
I raged impotently against the Fate toward which 
I was rushing. 

The drift of the light wind was, I saw, carrying 
me northwestward, and by the time my machine 
had almost reached the ground it was over the forest 
of Parroy. 

Close above a forest there is almost always a 
layer of dead air. So it was that day, and when 
my plane reached it and I felt that my last second 
had come, its nose shot upward and the spiral turned 
into a side wing-slip. Instantly there came to me 
the thought that I might yet have a chance for life, 
and I banged my fist against the fastening of my 



Two Miracles 271 



belt. It sprang open, liberating me, and at the same 
instant I felt my machine strike with terrific force 
among the tree tops. 

Whether I voluntarily jumped free of it, or was 
thrown out by the shock, I cannot say; but, as the 
most of it went on earthward with a sound of tear- 
ing canvas and snapping wood, to crash, rent and 
shattered, on the ground beneath, I remained cling- 
ing to one of the topmost boughs of a big fir tree. 

For a second I was again too dazed to realize 
the truth — then came the knowledge that I was still 
alive, saved from a death which had seemed inevita- 
ble, by a second miracle. 

Now there came a torturing pain in my back, 
which had been struck and badly wrenched, and a 
feeling of complete weakness and nausea. 

I could scarcely move, but I could not stay where 
I was, in a most unpleasant and still precarious 
position, and, with much difficulty, and very slowly, 
I half slid, half scrambled down the life-saving 
tree. 

Every movement brought a new stab of pain, my 



272 Go, Get 'Em! 



back felt so weak that I thought it was broken, and 
I had to dinch my teeth and make a determined 
mental effort in order to keep going; but I reached 
the ground at last, and sank down beside the wreck 
of the " CELIA V," for a time too overcome by 
pain and weakness even to be thankful. 

At a distance I heard the sound of running feet 
and excited voices calling to me, but I could not 
answer them. Something seemed to be stinging 
near my eye. I mechanically put my hand to the 
place, and brought it away covered with blood. 

Then, for the first time, I realized that I had been 
injured other than in my back, and I found out 
later that a piece of the shrapnel had struck and im- 
bedded itself in my nose, not more than an eighth 
of an inch from the eyeball. 

When the five or six poilus, who had witnessed 
my fall, arrived on the scene, they found me on my 
hands and knees, too weak to speak. I felt them 
pick me up and lay me on my back, then a black 
wave swept over me and I lost consciousness. 

When I came to, it was to look up into the faces 



Two Miracles 273 



of a French army doctor and two French nurses. 
One was bathing my head and stroking it gently. 
I shall never see a nurse's uniform without blessing 
it. They tried to keep me down, but I insisted upon 
sitting up immediately, and did it, too, although I 
felt mighty dizzy. 

" Your back received a pretty bad wrench and 
blow," said the physician, kindly. " How do you 
feel?" 

*' I feel fine," I answered, with the assistance of 
the nurses struggling to my feet. And although 
they wanted to summon an ambulance to take me 
home, I refused. 

The doctor aided me to a dugout under a ruined 
stone farmhouse near the third line trenches, from 
which I telephoned to our field for a motor car to 
come and get me. It arrived at length, and, as I 
still insisted that I was all right, and really felt 
fairly well, he let me go alone. I was driven up 
to the Pilotage, walked in and saluted Captain 
Azire, saying, ** Mon Capitaine, I have to report that 
I have just been shot down by an anti-aircraft gun 



274 ^^' ^^^ '^"^' 



from fifty-three hundred meters over the forest of 
Parroy.'' 

He looked at me in amazement, and answered, 
" Mon Dieu. Are you badly hurt? Do you want 
me to send for our doctor ? " 

" No, my captain, I'm all right, but my beautiful 
plane is a complete wreck." I told him where he 
could locate it, and he said that if I were sure I did 
not need attention, he would motor out at once and 
look it over. 

Leaving him, I went at once to my room in the 
chateau, which I now had all to myself, called my 
orderly and, with his aid, undressed and got into 
bed. Now I was beginning to feel very weak 
again, and rather strange inside. The orderly 
rubbed my back with alcohol, and from five o'clock 
— the hour at which I turned in — until daylight 
the next morning I tried to sleep, but the pain in 
my back increased steadily until my suffering was 
severe. Then the orderly put in his appearance, 
brought me bread and butter and chocolate, and I 
got him to give my back another rub. 



Two Miracles 275 



Captain Azire came to see me early that morn- 
ing, and, finding me unable to get up, and consider- 
ably worse than I had allowed him to suspect, or 
had, indeed, suspected myself, he sent for the doc- 
tor connected with our Corps. 

The latter came, gave me a thorough examina- 
tion, a rub and a sleeping powder and told me to 
remain in bed until I felt strong enough to travel. 
" Then," he said, " you must go and see Dr. Tuf- 
fier, the famous Parisian surgeon." During that 
day, and each which followed, my comrades came in 
to visit me whenever they were off duty, and told 
me all about what was happening, but they carefully 
refrained from discussing my accident, other than 
to congratulate me upon my luck in being alive. 

It was three days before I had strength and am- 
bition enough to get up and make the journey to 
Paris, and by the time I reached the city I felt so 
weak and rocky again that it was about all that 
I could do to crawl from the train to a taxicab and 
direct the driver to take me to the doctor's hospital. 

The name " Tuffier " is well known in France, 



276 Go, Get 'Em! 



for the surgeon is one of the world's leading au- 
thorities on lung wounds. I was ushered at once 
into the office of that distinguished-looking, elderly 
marvel, and had the honor, after he had made an 
examination of me, of being taken by him through 
part of the hospital, in one room of which he 
showed me a famous " case," a poilu who had been 
shot through the lung, and whose right breast was 
all laid open and filled with tubes for breathing and 
drainage. When I looked on that horribly shat- 
tered man, who, the Doctor said, would live, al- 
though a few years before he would have been 
doomed with such a wound, I felt almost ashamed 
of my own minor injuries. 

However, Dr. Tuffier had said, after finishing 
looking me over, that my back had received a bad 
bruise and strain and that the blow had also affected 
me internally. 

He also said that I should most certainly be 
" reforme " (discharged from the army) and return 
home to rest and recuperate. H I did this I would 
recover in a few months. 



Two Miracles 



277 



Although I had been looking forward to a pos- 
sible leave, the idea of going at that time had not 
entered my head; but, when I heard his words my 
heart jumped joyfully, and I instantly knew that 
there was nothing else on earth that I wanted to do 
so much as get back to America in a hurry. Kill- 
ing Boches could not compare with it as an impelling 
desire, for, although my fall had not cured me of 
my eagerness to fly and fight, my ambition along 
those lines had waned with the coming of my great 
physical weakness. 

"Go back to Luneville," he commanded, "and 
wait for your orders. I will write to your Division 
Commander a personal recommendation for your 
discharge." 

I obeyed his instructions, and for three days more 
remained quiet, resting, eating and sleeping. Then 
the mail brought me a brief order from the Chief 
of the Eighth Army at Nancy, which instructed me 
to appear at headquarters there at ten a. m. on 
March the twenty-ninth. 

When I reached the office at the place and time 



278 Go, Get 'Em! 



appointed I found the Colonel commanding our 
Southwestern division, a Major or two, and several 
Captains assembled in conclave. The first-men- 
tioned greeted me pleasantly, and, while I stood at 
attention, he read a brief summary of my career in 
the French army, enlistment and record of my vic- 
tories and of having been shot down and wounded. 
Then he said, " The Board has recommended that 
you receive the reforme. Number two — which 
means an honorable discharge." 

I saluted, thanked him and stepped out into the 
Spring sunshine as happy as ever I had been in my 
life. / was going home. 

My return to Luneville, packing up, final fare- 
wells, and the journey to Paris were all accom- 
plished in record time. Once there, my first act was 
to call upon Mr. Thaw of the United States Consu- 
late, and make application for my passport. 

It was three weeks before this would be ready 
for me, and I spent the time very quietly. 

In one respect I found Paris considerably 
changed. You have read that the populace laugh 



Two Miracles 279 



at Big Bertha, the Huns' deviling gun that sends its 
shells into the city from seventy-five miles away. 
It is not true; at least it was not true in April. 
They were not terror-stricken by any means, nor 
was their morale badly shaken by that new, uncanny 
menace — which is in reality much less dangerous 
than the air raiders to whom they have become ac- 
customed — but it had certainly gotten on their 
nerves. As airplanes could generally be detected in 
advance, the Alerte gave noisy warning of their 
approach, and the people might, if they wished, dive 
for cellars and subways. But Big Bertha's evil off- 
spring came without warning, other than its own 
whistle, which was not a warning but a signal that 
it had passed. 

Even the sound that it makes is very slight, nor 
nearly as loud as the drowning hum or shriek of 
the big gun's shells at the front, and it is, therefore, 
a horrible, silent peril which cannot be guarded 
against in any fashion, and takes its hellish toll as 
indiscriminately as Fate herself. 

Many of the richer people left Paris hastily 



28o Go, Get 'Em! 



after it began its work, the people of the hotel 
told me. 

The newspapers generally made only the briefest 
mention of its toll of innocent lives; but on Good 
Friday the wrath of the whole city burst into 
flames over the detailed report that scores of wor- 
shipers had been slaughtered while kneeling in 
church, and, as I read of this crime, and heard it 
discussed everywhere by people whose lips were 
drawn back and hands clinched with hate and hor- 
ror, my one hot anger against the Hun was re- 
kindled. I was going home and I was glad; but I 
swore that I would return soon, if Fate were will- 
ing, and take up my small part of the work of 
crushing the evil. On Easter Sunday the weapon 
of frightfulness claimed many more innocent vic- 
tims, this time in a Maternity Hospital. It was a 
glorious day for Germany. She had snuffed out a 
score more prospective French soldiers, in being or 
yet to be ! 

One day, a little later, I was walking by the side 
of the River Seine. Its surface was covered with 



Two Miracles 281 



dead fish. A shell from Big Bertha had struck and 
exploded in it that morning, a Gendarme told me. 

This sort of thing, violent death striking down 
wholesale everything which lives, is the daily lot of 
Paris. When it comes to New York, Boston or 
other big cities, perhaps Americans will learn how 
to hate the Hun as he deserves. 

During my period of waiting for the passport 
I had another slight operation, the piece of shrapnel 
being taken from the wound near my eye. Other- 
wise my stay was uneventful as far as personal ex- 
periences went, and the receipt of my permission to 
return to America, the trip to Bordeaux, and the 
voyage home on the Espagne were all undistin- 
guished by anything of peculiar interest. They are 
not part of my story of that eventful twelve months, 
and have no place in it. 

If such a narration can have a moral, this is it, 
and it is drawn from my own personal experiences. 

We cannot afford to take the Hun lightly, or take 
anything for granted in connection with Germany. 
He is a terrible fighter; she is a terrible world- 



282 Go, Get 'Em! 



menace. Every now and then we read in the daily- 
papers that a number of Boche soldiers have sur- 
rendered, starved, worn out and glad to be prison- 
ers. Doubtless all this is true, but it is highly 
unsafe to draw any general conclusions from such 
reports. The German soldier may be driven to 
fight, but he can fight, and will. 

There is no use in blinding ourselves to the obvi- 
ous fact that, if the war should stop now, Germany 
would be the winner. We have got to beat the 
Boche, whether it takes one year or ten, and, as the 
Captain of the Blue Devils who have lately been 
touring America put it, " We don't know how long 
the war is going to last, but it will last until some 
one is beaten — and it will not be we ! " 

In telling my story to many audiences since I re- 
turned home I have never lost an opportunity to say 
that we airmen are not the heroes that we are ac- 
claimed. I say it now. Flying is safe, under ordi- 
nary conditions, and under extraordinary ones it is 
nine-tenths luck — and the other tenth is foolish- 
ness. It is the men in the trenches who are the real 



Two Miracles 283 



heroes of this war, for theirs is the hardest work; 
theirs the most horrible conditions. 

All honor to them, yet I cannot but believe that 
the war will be won in the air, and only when the 
Allies have established a complete supremacy there. 
Every military man knows that the aircraft are the 
eyes of a modern army, and, if we can wholly blind 
the Prussian eagle, the battle will be half won. 

Besides, they have of late become a new factor 
in land fighting, and a large squadron of them, 
equipped with rapid-fire guns, and flying low over 
moving masses of the enemy's troops, can rake 
them at short range and accomplish, with compara- 
tively little danger, more than a hundred or a thou- 
sand times their number on foot. The war has 
assumed a new phase, one of movement, and the 
" cavalry of the air '' will play the most important 
part in it, I firmly believe. 

The French bore the burden of air fighting at 
first, and bore it nobly ; England, with her wonder- 
ful " Royal Flying Corps," is now assuming the 
Lion's share, and America has begun to do her part. 



284 Go, Get 'Em! 



It is highly fitting that, before the war is ended, we 
should assume the Eagle's share of this all-impor- 
tant work. 

American youths are, by racial characteristics and 
training, particularly well fitted to take the lead in 
this greatest of all games, and, since America gave 
being to the first airplane, she should now resume 
supremacy in its use — a supremacy which she 
should never have lost. 

We need, not hundreds, nor thousands, but tens 
of thousands of airplanes, trained aviators and me- 
chanics at the front, and need them there imme- 
diately. 

Wake up, America, and stretch your wings, the 
wings of Victory! 



THE END 



I GO, GET ^EM! \ 

^y William A. Wellman 

Marechal des Logis of Escadrille N. 87 
The True Adventures of an American Aviator of 
THE Lafayette Flying Corps who was the Only 
Yankee Flyer Fighting over General Pershing's 
Boys of the Rainbow Division in Lorraine when 
they first "Went Over the Top." 

Cloth decorative, i2mo, illustrated, $1.50 

When a young Yankee athlete makes up his mind to 
play a part in the most thrilling game which the world 
has ever witnessed — war in mid air — the result is cer- 
tain to produce a heart-thrilling story. 

Many such tales are being told to-day, but few, if 
any, can hope to approach that lived and now written 
by Sergeant "Billy" Wellman, for he engaged in some 
of the most amazing air battles imaginable, during the 
course of which he sent tumbling to destruction^ seven 
Boche machines — achievements which won for him the 
coveted Croix de Guerre with two palms. 

Marechal Wellman was the only American in the air 
over General Pershing's famous "Rainbow Division" 
when the Yankee troops made their historic first over- 
the-top attack on the Hun, and during that battle he 
was in command of the lowest platoon of French fight- 
ing planes and personally disposed of two of the 
enemy's attacking aircraft. 

His experience included far more than fightmg above 
the firmament. He was in Paris and Nancy during 
four distinct night bombing raids by the Boche and 
participated in rescues made necessary thereby; he, 
with a comrade, chased two hostile machines far into 
Germany and shot up their aviation field; he was lost 
in a blizzard on Christmas Day; he was in intimate 
touch with the men and officers of the Rainbow Divi- 
sion, and was finally shot down by anti-aircraft guns 
from a height of 5300 metres, escaping death by a 
miracle, but so seriously wounded that his honorable 
discharge followed immediately. 

Sergeant Wellman's story is unquestionably the most 
unusual and illuminating yet told in print. 



THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF BROMLEY BARNES 

r^ ^y George Barton 

Author of "The Mystery of the Red Flame" "The 

World's Greatest Military Spies and Secret 

Service Agents," etc. 

Cloth decorative, i2mo, illustrated, $1.50 



Mr. Barton first "broke into print," as the saying 
goes, with a mystery story entitled "The Scoop of the 
Session," which was published in Collier's a number of 
years ago, and has the reputation of having written 
more short detective stories than any other writer in 
the United States. 

In this new book Mr. Barton sets forth in absorbing 
fashion the Strange Adventures of Bromley Barnes, 
retired detective, but whose interest in the solution of 
baffling cases in public and private life is just as keen 
as in his days of active Government service. 

Worried and harassed Government officials, also per- 
plexed and anxious private individuals, seek the services 
of the astute detective in national problems and per- 
sonal matters, and just how the suave and diplomatic 
Barnes clears away mysteries makes a story that is 
mighty good reading. 




:c8»:a:^ca:8»3C8»:8»»»:8»:8»»»»»:83) 

DAWSON BLACK, RETAIL 
MERCHANT 



F^ Si/ Harold Whitehead g^ 

Assistant Professor of Business Method, The College 

of Business Administration, Boston University, 

author of " The Business Career of Peter 

Flint," "Principles of Salesmanship," etc. 

Illustrated hy John Goss, cloth, ismo, $1.50 

As Assistant Professor of Business Method in Boston 
University's famous College of Business Administra- 
tion, the author's lectures have attracted widespread 
attention, and the popularity of his stories of business 
Hfe, which have appeared serially in important trade 
magazines and newspapers all over the country, has 
created an insistent demand for their book pubhcation. 
DAWSON BLACK is the story of a young man's 
first year in business as a store owner — a hardware 
store, but the principles illustrated apply equally to 
any other kind of retail store. In bright, pithy style 
i the author narrates the triumphs and disasters, the 
\ joys and sorrows, the problems and their solutions with 
\ which a young employer, just commencing his career, 
5 is confronted. Relations with employees, means of 
\ fighting competition, and trade psychology in adver- 
\ tising are some of the important subjects treated. 
5 The hero's domestic career lends the "human 
\ interest " touch, so that the book skilfully combines 
i fact with fiction, or "business with pleasure," and is 
5 both fascinating and informative. 






I 



THE MAN WHO WON 

OR. THE CAREER AND ADVENTURES OF 
THE YOUNGER MR. HARRISON 



Sy Leon D, Hirsch 



Cloth decorative, ismo, illustrated by William Van 
Dresser, $1.50 



9 



Mr. Hirsch has given the public a novel decidedly 
out of the ordinary — a stirring story of political life 
combined with a romance of absorbing interest. 

In compeUing fashion the author tells how Edward 
Harrison, recognized political boss, who had long con- 
trolled the affairs of a prosperous city, was forced to 
admit that his unprincipled political methods must 
give way to clean government, an exponent of which g 
he sees in his son. S 

Cleverly the author depicts Edward Harrison, the « 

unscrupulous political boss; Jack Harrison, his son, 8 

who differs quite a bit from his father; Mrs. Harrison, g 

the indefatigable social climber ; and Alice Lane, a S 

bright, lovable girl; and around these widely different S 

characters Mr. Hirsch has written a vivid story of g 

politics, ambition, love, hate and — best of all — o^ 8 

real life that grips the reader. S 



